UN;V  !U,TY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
ERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIF.GO 

by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIIJRARY 


MR.  - 

donor 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

AND    OTHER   TALES 


BY 

JAMES  L.  FORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "HYPNOTIC  TALES,"  "DR.  DODD'S  SCHOOL," 
"THE  THIRD  ALARM,"  ETC. 


THIRD  EDITION 


NEW-YORK 

GEO.  H.  RICHMOND  &  CO. 
1896 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  GEO.  H.  RICHMOND  &  Co. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

MANY  of  these  papers  are  new.  Others 
are  reprinted  by  permission  from  Puck 
and  Truth. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP. 
CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

IN  AN  OLD  GARRET 1 

CHAPTER  H. 
THE  " LEDGER"  PERIOD  OF  LETTERS 11 

CHAPTER  m. 
SOMETHING  ABOUT  "  GOOD  BAD  STUFF  "...     24 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  EARLY  HOLLAND  PERIOD 34 

CHAPTER  V. 

MENDACITY  DURING  THE  HOLLAND  PERIOD 
OP  LETTERS 47 

CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  DAWN  OP  THE  JOHNSONIAN  PERIOD  ...    62 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGE 

WOMAN'S  INFLUENCE  IN  THE  JOHNSONIAN 
PERIOD 78 

CHAPTER  VIE. 

LITERATURE— PAWED  AND  UNPAWED;  AND 
THE  CROWN-PRINCE  THEREOF .  99 

CHAPTER  IX. 

CERTAIN  THINGS  WHICH  A  CONSCIENTIOUS 
LITERARY  WORKER  MAT  FIND  IN  THE 
CITY  OF  NEW  YORK 118 

CHAPTER  X. 
"HE  TRUN  UP  BOTE  HANDS ! " 139 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  CONCLUSION  OF  THE  WHOLE  MATTER.  160 


AND  OTHER  TALES. 

THE  POETS'  STRIKE 183 

ANCIENT  FORMS  OF  AMUSEMENT 194 

THE  SOBER,  INDUSTRIOUS  POET,  AND  How 
HE  FARED  AT  EASTER-TIME 199 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  Two  BROTHERS;  OR,  PLUCKED  PROM 

THE  BURNING 208 

THE  STORY  OP  THE  YOUNG  MAN  OP  TAL- 
ENT    223 

THE  SOCIETY  REPORTER'S  CHRISTMAS 231 

THE  DYING  GAG 245 

"  ONLY  A  TYPE-WRITER  " 251 

THE  CULTURE  BUBBLE  IN  OURTOWN 260 

SOME   THOUGHTS   ON    THE  CONSTRUCTION 
AND  PRESERVATION  OF  JOKES.  .  .  275 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  AN  OLD  GARRET. 

I  AM  lying  at  full  length  on  a  broken- 
down  haircloth  sofa  that  has  been  placed 
near  the  cobwebby  window  of  an  old  gar- 
ret in  a  country  farm-house.  It  is  near 
the  close  of  a  rainy  day,  and  all  the  after- 
noon I  have  listened  to  the  pattering  of 
the  heavy  drops  on  the  shingled  roof, 
the  rustling  of  the  slender  locust-trees 
and  the  creaking  of  their  branches  as  the 
wind  moves  them. 

There  are  pop-corn  ears  drying  on  the 
floor  of  this  old  garret  5  its  solid  rafters 
1 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

are  festooned  with  dried  apples  and  white 
onions.  Odd  bits  of  furniture,  and  two 
or  three  hair  trunks  bearing  initials  made 
with  brass-headed  nails,  are  scattered 
about  the  room,  and  from  where  I  lie  I 
can  see  a  Franklin  stove,  a  pair  of  brass 
andirons,  and  one  of  those  queer  wooden- 
wheeled  clocks  that  used  to  be  made  in 
Connecticut  years  ago,  and  which  are  a 
fitting  monument  to  the  ingenuity  of  the 
Yankee  race. 

Every  article  in  the  room  is  carefully 
treasured,  and  none  is  held  in  more  ten- 
der regard  than  are  certain  square,  dust- 
covered  packages  of  what  might  be  old 
newspapers  that  are  piled  up  in  big  heaps 
beside  the  old  chairs  and  tables.  One  of 
these  bundles  lies  on  the  floor  beside  my 
sofa,  with  its  string  untied  and  its  eon- 
tents  scattered  carelessly  about.  Look 
down  and  you  will  see  that  it  contains 
copies  of  the  Neiv  York  Ledger,  of  a  year 
that  was  one  of  the  early  seventies,  and 
2 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

which  have  been  religiously  preserved,  to- 
gether with  fully  twoscore  of  other  simi- 
lar bundles,  by  the  excellent  people  who 
dwell  in  the  house. 

The  number  which  I  hold  in  my  hand 
contains  instalments  of  four  serials,  as 
many  complete  stories,  half  a  dozen 
poems,  contributions  by  Heniy  Ward 
Beecher,  James  Parton,  and  Mary  Kyle 
Dallas,  and  a  number  of  short  editorials 
and  paragraphs,  besides  two  solid  nonpa- 
reil columns  of  "Notices  to  Correspon- 
dents." One  of  the  serials  is  called  "  The 
Haunted  Husband  ;  or,  Lady  Chetwynde's 
Specter,"  and  deals  exclusively  with  that 
superior  class  of  mortals  who  go  to  make 
up  what  a  great  many  of  the  old  Ledger 
readers  would  have  called  "carnage  trade." 
Another  story,  "  Unknown ;  or,  The  Mys- 
tery of  Raven  Rocks,"  bears  the  signature 
of  Mrs.  E.  D.  N.  Southworth,  a  name  ven- 
erated in  every  household  in  which  a  red- 
plush  photograph-album  is  treasured  as 

3 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

a  precious  objet  d'art.  The  short  stories 
are  simple  and  innocuous  enough  to  suit 
the  most  primitive  of  brain-cells.  The 
fiction  is  embellished  with  three  pictures, 
which  are  interesting  as  specimens  of  a 
simple  and  now  happily  obsolete  school 
of  art. 

The  "Notices  to  Correspondents "  are 
a  joy  forever,  and  reflect  with  charming 
simplicity  and  candor  the  minds  of  the 
thousands  of  anxious  inquirers  who  were 
wont  to  lay  all  their  doubts  and  troubles 
at  Robert  Bonner's  feet. 

It  is  here  that  the  secrets  of  the  maiden 
heart  are  laid  bare  to  the  gaze  of  the 
whole  world.  It  is  here  that  we  read  of 
the  young  man  who  is  " waiting  on"  a 
young  widow  and  formerly  "kept  com- 
pany with  "  a  lady  friend  who  is  the  cash- 
ier of  the  laundry  which  he  patronizes. 
Not  knowing  which  of  the  two  he  ought 
to  marry,  he  pours  out  his  soul  in  this 
free-for-all  arena  of  thought  and  discus- 
4 


THE  LITER ART  SHOP 

sion.  "Mary  X."  writes  from  Xenia,  0., 
to  inquire  if  she  is  a  flirt  because  she  has 
a  new  beau  every  two  weeks,  and  is  sol- 
emnly warned  by  Mr.  Bonner  that  if  she 
goes  on  in  that  way  she  "will  soon  have 
no  beaux  at  all."  "  L.  L.  D."  is  a  young 
girl  of  eighteen,  whose  parents  are  ad- 
dicted to  drink.  She  wishes  to  know  if 
it  is  proper  for  her  to  correspond  with 
a  young  gentleman  friend  who  is  a  tele- 
graph-operator in  Buffalo  and  has  made 
her  a  present  of  a  backgammon-board 
last  Christmas.  That  these  letters  are 
genuine  is  proved  by  their  tone  of  artless 
simplicity,  and  by  the  fact  that  no  single 
mind  or  score  of  minds  could  invent  the 
extraordinary  questions  that  were  pro- 
pounded from  week  to  week. 

Careful  perusal  of  the  Ledger  lyrics  re- 
veals a  leaning  on  the  part  of  the  poets 
of  that  period  toward  such  homely  themes 
as  "The  Children's  Photographs,"  "The 
Mother's  Blessing,"  and  "Down  by  the 
5 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Old  Orchard  Wall."  They  are  all  written 
on  the  same  plane  of  inanity,  and  are  ad- 
mirably well  suited  to  the  tastes  of  the 
admirers  of  Mrs.  Southworth  and  Sylva- 
nus  Cobb,  Jr. 

It  is  growing  dark  in  the  old  garret — 
too  dark  to  read — and  I  arise  from  the 
horsehair  sofa,  filled  with  memories  of 
the  past  which  have  been  awakened  by 
perusal  of  the  yellow  sheet  of  twenty 
years  ago.  As  I  tie  up  the  bundle  and 
place  it  on  the  dust-covered  heap  with  its 
fellows,  my  eye  falls  upon  a  dozen  pack- 
ages, different  in  shape  from  these  and 
containing  copies  of  the  Century  Magazine 
for  the  past  decade,  which  are  preserved 
with  the  same  tender  care  that  was  once 
bestowed  upon  the  Ledger  alone. 

But  as  I  slowly  descend  the  staircase 
my  mind  is  full  of  the  favorite  old  story- 
paper,  and  of  the  enormous  influence 
which  its  Scotch  proprietor,  Robert  Bon- 
ner,  exerted  over  the  literature  of  his 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

day  and  generation — an  influence  which 
is  still  potent  in  the  offices  of  the  great 
magazines  which  now  supply  us  with  read- 
ing matter.  I  doubt  if  there  has  ever 
been,  in  this  country,  a  better  edited 
paper  than  the  Ledger  was  in  the  days 
when  its  destinies  were  shaped  by  the 
hand  of  its  canny  proprietor.  No  editor 
ever  understood  his  audience  better,  or, 
knowing  his  readers,  was  more  successful 
in  giving  them  what  they  wanted,  than 
was  Robert  Bonner,  whose  dollars  accu- 
mulated in  his  own  coffers  even  as  the 
files  of  his  paper  accumulated  in  country 
garrets  in  all  parts  of  this  broad  land. 

"  Well,  where  do  you  find  evidences  of 
such  careful  editing  in  that  hotch-potch 
which  you  describe  so  carefully  ? "  I  hear 
some  carping  critic  ask,  and  as  I  run  my 
eye  over  what  I  have  written  I  realize 
that  I  have  utterly  failed  in  my  attempt 
to  convey  an  idea  of  the  glories  of  that 
particular  number  of  the  Ledger.  I  would 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

say,  however,  to  my  critical  friend  that 
the  paper  is  well  edited  because  it  does 
not  contain  a  line  of  prose  or  a  stanza  of 
verse  that  is  not  aimed  directly  at  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  the  vast  army  of 
farmers,  midwives,  gas-fitters'  daughters, 
and  the  blood-relations  of  janitors  who 
constituted  its  peculiar  clientele.  And  I 
would  add  that  if  the  critical  one  desires 
to  get  at  the  very  bone  and  sinew  of 
Ledger  literature  he  should  make  a  care- 
ful study  of  the  poems  which  were  an  im- 
portant feature  of  it,  and  in  which  may 
be  found  the  very  essence  of  the  great 
principles  by  which  the  paper  was  guided. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Bonner  used  to  be  more 
particular  about  his  poetry  than  about 
his  prose,  and  always  read  himself  every 
line  of  verse  submitted  to  him  for  publi- 
cation. Some  of  the  poems  were  written 
by  women  of  simple,  serious  habits  of 
thought ;  but  a  great  many  of  the  highly 
moral  and  instructive  effusions  that  were 

8 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

an  important  feature  of  the  paper  were 
prepared  by  ungodly  and  happy-go-lucky 
Bohemians,  who  were  glad  to  eke  out  the 
livelihood  earned  by  reporting  with  an 
occasional  " tenner"  from  Mr.  Banner's 
treasury.  These  poets  studied  the  great 
editor's  peculiarities  and  personal  tastes 
as  carefully  as  the  most  successful  maga- 
zine contributors  of  to-day  study  those 
of  the  various  Gilders,  Johnsons,  Burlin- 
games,  and  Aldens  who  dominate  Ameri- 
can letters  in  the  present  year.  For  ex- 
ample, no  horses  in  Ledger  poems  were 
ever  permitted  to  trot  faster  than  a  mile 
in  eight  minutes,  and  it  was  considered 
sagacious  to  name  them  Dobbin  or  Old 
Bess.  Poems  in  praise  of  stepmothers  or 
life-insurance  were  supposed  to  be  dis- 
tasteful to  the  great  editor,  but  he  was 
believed  to  have  an  absolute  passion  for 
lyrics  which  extolled  the  charm  of  country 
life  and  the  homely  virtues  of  rural  folk. 
If  a  poet  wrote  more  than  one  rhyme  to 
9 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

the  quatrain  he  was  warned  by  his  fellows 
not  to  ruin  the  common  market. 

And  now  I  hear  from  the  carping  critic 
again:  "But  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  any  good  poetry  was  produced  by 
such  a  process?  Why,  suppose  one  of 
our  great  magazines — " 

"Who  said  anything  about  good  po- 
etry ?  It  was  good  poetry  for  the  Ledger 
subscribers  to  read,  and  as  to  the  great 
modern  magazines — haven't  I  told  you 
already  that  I  stumbled  over  a  heap  of 
them  just  as  I  was  leaving  the  old  garret 
where  the  pop-corn  and  the  wreaths  of 
dried  apples  and  the  bundles  of  Ledgers 
are  kept?" 


10 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  "LEDGER"  PERIOD  OP  LETTERS. 

A  QUARTER  of  a  century  hence,  per- 
haps, one  of  those  arbiters  of  taste  to 
whom  poetastry  owes  its  very  existence 
will  lecture  before  the  intellectual  and 
artistic  circles  of  that  period  on  "  The  Lit- 
erary Remains  of  the  Bonnerian  Period  " ; 
and  the  Ledger  school  of  poetry,  long 
neglected  by  our  critics,  will  become  a 
fashionable  cult.  I  hope,  too,  that  the 
names  of  those  writers  who,  as  disciples 
of  that  school,  gave  an  impetus  to  those 
great  principles  which  live  to-day  in  the 
beautifully  printed  pages  of  our  lead- 
ing periodicals  will  be  rescued  from  the 
11 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

shades  of  obscurity   and  accorded  the 
tardy  credit  that  they  have  fairly  won. 

These  principles  have  lived  because  they 
were  founded  on  good,  sound,  logical 
common  sense,  for  Mr.  Bonner  possesses 
one  of  the  most  logical  minds  in  the 
world.  In  the  days  when  he  was — un- 
consciously, I  am  sure — moulding  the  lit- 
erature of  future  generations  of  Ameri- 
cans, he  was  always  able  to  give  a  reason 
for  every  one  of  his  official  acts;  and  I 
doubt  if  as  much  can  be  said  of  all  the 
magazine  editors  of  the  present  day.  It 
was  this  faculty  that  enabled  his  contrib- 
utors to  learn  so  much  of  his  likes  and 
dislikes,  for  if  he  rejected  a  manuscript 
he  was  always  ready  to  tell  the  author 
exactly  why  the  work  was  not  suitable  for 
the  Ledger. 

For  instance:   One  day  a  maker  of 
prose  and  verse  received  from  the  hands 
of  the  great  editor  a  story  which  he  had 
submitted  to  him  the  week  before. 
12 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

"  If  you  please,"  said  the  poet,  politely, 
"  I  should  like  to  know  why  you  cannot 
use  my  story,  so  that  I  may  be  guided  in 
the  future  by  your  preferences." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Bonner.  "  This 
story  will  not  do  for  me  because  you  have 
in  it  the  marriage  of  a  man  with  his 
cousin." 

"But,"  protested  the  young  author, 
"cousins  do  marry  in  real  life  very 
often." 

"In  real  life,  yes,"  cried  the  canny 
Scotchman;  "but  not  in  the  New  York 
Ledger!" 

And  it  is  related  of  this  talented  young 
maker  of  prose  and  verse,  that  he  changed 
his  hero  and  heroine  from  cousins  to 
neighbors,  and  the  very  same  night  was 
seen  in  Pfaff s  quaffing,  smoking,  and 
jesting  with  his  fellow-poets,  and  making 
merry  over  the  defeat  that  was  turned 
into  a  victory.  And  in  the  generous  fash- 
ion of  Bohemia  he  told  all  his  comrades 
13 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

that  "  Bonner  was  down  on  cousins  mar- 
rying"; and  thereafter  neither  in  song 
nor  story  did  a  Ledger  hero  ever  look 
with  anything  but  the  eye  of  brotherly 
affection  on  any  woman  of  even  the  most 
remote  consanguinity. 

"  In  real  life,  yes ;  but  not  in  the  New 
York  Ledger  !  " 

That  gives  us  a  taste  of  the  milk  in 
the  cocoanut,  although  it  does  not  ac- 
count for  the  hair  on  the  outside  of  the 
sheU. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Bonner  knew 
that  a  great  many  of  his  subscribers  did 
not  approve  of  a  man  marrying  his  own 
cousin  when  there  were  plenty  of  other 
folks'  cousins  to  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
and  so,  rather  than  cause  a  moment's  an- 
noyance to  a  single  one  of  these,  he  for- 
bade the  practice  in  the  columns  of  his 
paper. 

I  knew  a  number  of  these  Ledger  writers 
in  my  salad  days,  and  have  often  heard 

14 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

them  discussing  their  trade  and  the 
condition  of  the  market  in  a  way  that 
would  have  lifted  the  hair  of  some  of  the 
litterateurs  of  the  modern  "delightful- 
ly-Bohemian-studio-tea" and  kettledrum 
school. 

Years  ago  one  of  them  confided  to  me 
his  recipe  for  a  Ledger  poem.  "What- 
ever you  do,"  he  said,  "  be  careful  not  to 
use  up  a  whole  idea  on  a  single  poem,  for 
if  you  do  you'll  never  be  able  to  make  a 
cent.  I  usually  cut  an  idea  into  eight 
pieces,  like  a  pie,  and  write  a  poem  for 
each  piece,  though  once  or  twice  I  have 
made  sixteen  pieces  out  of  one.  My '  Two 
Brothers'  idea  yielded  me  just  sixteen 
poems,  all  accepted,  for  which  I  received 
$160.  What  do  I  mean  by  cutting  up 
an  idea  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  took  for 
a  whole  idea  two  brothers  brought  up  on 
a  farm  in  the  country,  one  of  whom  goes 
down  to  the  city,  while  the  other  stays  at 
home  on  the  farm.  Well,  I  wrote  eight 

15 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

poems  about  those  brothers,  giving  them 
such  names  as  Homespun  Bill  and 
Fancy  Jake,  and  the  city  man  always 
went  broke,  and  was  glad  to  get  back  to 
the  country  again  and  find  that  Home- 
spun Bill  had  either  paid  the  mortgage 
on  the  place  or  saved  the  house  from 
burning,  or  done  something  else  calcu- 
lated to  commend  him  to  the  haymakers 
who  subscribed  for  the  paper.  Then  I 
wrote  eight  more,  and  in  every  one  of 
those  it  was  the  yokel  who  got  left ;  that 
is  to  say,  Fancy  Jake  or  Dashing  Tom,  or 
whatever  I  might  choose  to  call  him, 
would  go  to  the  city  and  either  get  rich 
in  Wall  Street — always  Wall,  never  Broad 
or  Nassau  Street  or  Broadway,  remember 
—and  come  back  just  in  time  to  stop  the 
sheriffs  sale  and  bid  in  the  old  home- 
stead for  some  unheard-of  figure,  or  else 
he  would  become  a  great  physician  and 
return  to  save  his  native  village  at  a  time 
of  pestilence,  or  maybe  I'd  have  him  a 
16 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

great  preacher  and  come  back  and  save 
all  their  souls  5  anyway,  I  got  eight  more 
poems  out  of  the  pair,  to  say  nothing  of 
some  stories  that  I  used  in  another  paper." 

I  pondered  for  several  moments  over 
the  words  of  the  poet  and  then  I  said  to 
him,  "  But  if  you  were  so  successful  with 
the  '  Two  Brothers/  why  didn't  you  try  to 
do  as  well  with  two  sisters?" 

"  I  did,"  he  replied.  "  I  started  a  '  Two 
Sisters'  series  as  soon  as  the  brothers  were 
all  harvested,  but  I  got  them  back  on  my 
hands  again.  You  know  Bonner  is  down 
on  sisters." 

"  Bonner  is  down  on  sisters !  " 

What  stumbling-blocks  there  were  in 
the  path  to  literary  fame  which  the  poets 
of  the  early  Ledger  period  sought  to  tread ! 

Fancy  the  feelings  of  one  who  has 
poured  out  his  whole  soul  in  a  poem  de- 
scriptive of  sisterly  love  and  learns  that 
his  labor  has  been  in  vain,  not  because 
of  any  fault  on  his  part,  not  because  his 

17 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

poem  is  not  good,  but  simply  and  solely 
because  "  Bonner  is  down  on  sisters " ! 
And  then  I  hear  the  carping  critic  ask  if 
I  call  that  good  editing.  I  say  that  it 
was  the  very  best  of  editing.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  good  enough  to  make  the 
Ledger  fiction  popular  from  one  end  of 
this  country  to  the  other;  and  it  is  be- 
cause of  that  editing  that  we  still  find 
the  old  dusty  files  in  the  country  gar- 
rets, along  with  the  pop-corn  ears  and  the 
wreaths  of  dried  apples.  I  wonder  how 
much  of  the  ephemeral  literature  of  to- 
day will  be  found  sacredly  guarded  in 
anybody's  garret  a  quarter  of  a  century 
hence  ? 

But  there  were  other  folks  besides  sis- 
ters and  matrimonial  cousins  who  were 
regarded  with  disfavor  by  the  great  edi 
tor  and  thinker  who  long  ago  set  the  pace 
for  modern  American  fiction. 

Well  do  I  remember  Jack  Moran  com- 
ing upon  us  one  bright  morning,  a  dozen 

18 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

years  ago,  with  bitter  invective  on  his 
lips  because  his  poem,  "  The  Stepmother's 
Prayer,"  had  been  returned  to  him  from 
the  Ledger  office.  He  read  it  aloud  to 
us,  and  then  inquired,  pathetically,  "  Isn't 
that  poem  all  right  ? " 

It  was  more  than  "  all  right."  It  was 
a  delicate,  imaginative  bit  of  verse,  de- 
scriptive of  the  young  bride  kneeling  rev- 
erently in  the  nursery  of  her  new  home 
and  praying  that  God  would  make  her  a 
good  mother  to  the  sleeping  stepchildren. 
It  was  a  real  poem — such  a  poem  as  poor, 
gifted  Irish  Jack  Moran  could  write,  but 
only  when  the  mood  was  upon  him,  for 
he  was  not  one  of  those  makers  of  verse 
who  go  to  work  at  six  in  the  morning 
with  their  dinner-pails. 

"  Ah,  Jack !  "  exclaimed  a  sympathiz- 
ing poet,  "  you  never  should  have  taken 
it  to  the  Ledger.  Didn't  you  know 
that  Bonner  was  down  on  stepmothers? 
Change  it  round  so  as  to  make  the  step- 
19 


THE  LITER ART  SHOP 

mother  a  beast,  and  he'll  give  you  ten 
for  it." 

"  By  the  way,  Jack,  do  you  remember 
the  time  there  was  a  death  in  the  old 
man's  family,  and  we  all  got  in  on  him 
with  poems  about  meeting  on  the  further 
shore  and  crossing  the  dark  river  ? " 

"  I  do,"  replied  Jack,  briefly.  "  It  was 
worth  just  twenty  to  me." 

And  why  was  Bonner  "  down  "  on  step- 
mothers? Simply  because  he  wished  to 
avoid  giving  offense  to  those  who  dis- 
approved of  second  marriages,  and  who 
formed  a  very  large  part  of  his  constitu- 
ency. 

I  hope  that  I  have  thrown  sufficient 
pathos  into  my  description  of  the  condi- 
tion of  the  poor  rhymester  of  a  dozen  or 
fifteen  years  ago  to  touch  the  hearts  of 
my  sympathetic  readers.  How  much  bet- 
ter off,  you  say,  is  the  literary  man  of  to- 
day, who  makes  steady  wages  in  Franklin 
Square,  or  occupies  one  of  the  neat  white 
20 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

cottages  erected  for  the  employees  of  the 
McClure  Steam  Syndicate  Mills  in  Pater- 
son! 

Better  off  in  some  respects,  perhaps, 
dear  reader,  but  in  others  his  state  is 
none  the  more  gracious  than  it  was  in 
the  days  when  Jack  Moran's  "  Stepmoth- 
er's Prayer  "  was  rejected  because  Bonner 
was  down  on  stepmothers.  The  great 
Ledger  editor  has  retired  to  his  stock- 
farm,  but  the  principles  which  have  en- 
abled him  to  possess  a  stock-farm  still 
live  in  every  magazine  office  in  the  land, 
and  the  writer  of  to-day  must  be  just  as 
careful  in  regard  to  forbidden  topics  as 
his  predecessor  was,  and,  moreover,  must 
keep  his  eye  on  three  or  four  editors,  with 
their  likes  and  their  dislikes. 

But  these  remarks  are  not  made  in  a 
carping  spirit.  There  is  some  good  rea- 
son for  every  one  of  these  likes  and  dis- 
likes. If  Mr.  Gilder  prefers  oatmeal  to 
wheaten  grits  as  a  breakfast-table  dish 
21 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

for  the  hero  of  the  new  Century  serial,  it 
is  because  he  has  an  eye  on  his  Scotch 
subscribers;  and  if  the  manuscript  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  is  returned  to  Mr.  De  Foe 
with  the  remark  that  "Burlingame  is 
down  on  goats/'  it  is  simply  because 
Scribner's  Magazine  is  not  pushing  its  sale 
in  Harlem  and  Williamsburg. 

In  regard  to  the  practice  of  cutting  an 
idea  into  eight  pieces  and  serving  up  each 
piece  as  a  separate  poem  or  story,  can 
any  one  familiar  with  current  literature 
deny  that  ideas  are  just  as  much  cut  up 
now  as  they  ever  were  ?  More  than  that, 
have  not  some  of  our  writers  solved  the 
old  problem  of  making  bricks  without 
straw?  Why,  then,  you  ask,  is  their 
manuscript  printed  in  preference  to  mat- 
ter that  is  more  virile  and  fresh  and  read- 
able? For  the  same  reason  that  Jack 
Moran's  "  Stepmother's  Prayer "  was  re- 
turned to  him  by  the  very  hand  that  was 
stretched  forth  in  glad  eagerness  to  grasp 
22 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

the  sixteen  poems  that  had  sprung  from 
the  solitary  idea  of  the  two  country  broth- 
ers. Why,  I  know  of  one  or  two  poets 
whose  verses  enjoy  the  widest  sort  of 
publicity,  and  who,  I  am  sure,  cut  an  idea 
into  thirty-two  pieces  instead  of  sixteen. 


23 


CHAPTER  III. 

SOMETHING  ABOUT   "GOOD  BAD  STUFF." 

"  BONNER  is  down  on  stepmothers !  " 
"All  Ledger  horses  must  be  called  Dob- 
bin, and  there  is  a  heavy  fine  for  driving 
them  through  a  poem  or  serial  faster  than 
a  walk,  or,  at  best,  a  slow  trot !  "  "  Don't 
write  anything  about  cousins  marrying 
unless  you  want  to  have  them  back  on 
your  hands  again !  "  These  were  a  few  of 
the  beacon-lights  that  shone  on  the  liter- 
ary pathway  of  twenty  years  ago,  and  I 
know  of  more  than  one  successful  writer 
whose  early  footsteps  were  guided  by  the 
great  artistic  principles  first  laid  down  by 
Robert  Bonner  and  religiously  followed 
by  the  makers  of  prose  and  verse  who 

24 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

brought  their  wares  to  him  every  Friday 
morning.  But  poor  Jack  Morau  did  not 
live  to  become  a  successful  writer.  He 
dropped  out  of  the  ranks  just  as  the  rest 
of  us  were  passing  the  quarter-post,  but 
it  was  the  first  hurdle  that  really  did 
for  him.  I  have  often  thought  that  if 
Jack  had  taken  his  friend's  advice  and 
"  changed  his  poem  round  so  as  to  make 
the  stepmother  a  beast,"  he  might  have 
lived  to  fill  a  responsible  position  in  the 
Franklin  Square  Prose  and  Verse  Foun- 
dry, or  at  the  Eagle  Verse  Works  in  Jersey 
City.  But  Jack  was  a  poet,  and  therefore 
did  not  know  how  to  "  change  his  poem 
round,"  and  besides  he  hated  to  go  to 
work  every  morning  with  his  dinner-pail 
in  his  hand,  and  there  were  cakes  and 
ale  in  Bohemia  in  those  days  for  such 
as  he. 

As  for  the  poet  who  tried  to  guide 
Jack's  footsteps  in  the  path  that  led  to 
fame,  he  is  alive  to-day,  and  a  highly 
25 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

esteemed  member  of  the  guild.  Indeed, 
a  more  industrious,  sober,  or  thrifty  man 
of  letters  never  put  on  a  pair  of  overalls 
or  crossed  the  North  River  in  the  early 
morning  boat  with  a  basket  of  poems, 
jokes,  and  stories  on  his  arm. 

One  Friday  morning,  many  years  ago, 
I  went  with  this  poet  to  the  Ledger  build- 
ing, and  there  found  half  a  dozen  writers 
gathered  together  in  an  outer  office, 
anxiously  watching  the  dark  shadow  of  a 
man  that  was  thrown  upon  a  partition 
of  ground  glass  that  extended  from  floor 
to  ceiling  across  the  room  and  separated  it 
from  the  private  office  of  the  great 
editor. 

The  dark  moving  shadow  on  which 
every  eye  was  fixed  was  that  of  Robert 
Bonner  himself,  and  as  it  was  seen  to 
cross  the  room  to  a  remote  corner — 
growing  smaller  and  fainter  as  it  re- 
ceded— every  face  brightened  with  hope, 
and  forms  that  had  seemed  bent  and  de- 
26 


THE  LITEEAET  SHOP 

jected  but  a  moment  before  were  sud- 
denly straightened.  An  instant  later  the 
door  opened  and  the  editor  of  the  Ledger 
crossed  the  threshold,  handed  a  ten-dollar 
bill  to  one  of  the  waiting  poets,  and  then 
hastily  retired  to  his  own  den  again. 

Then  my  friend  showed  me  how  the 
watchers  could  tell  by  the  movements  of 
the  dark  shade  whether  a  poem  had  been 
accepted  or  refused.  If  the  editor  walked 
from  his  desk  to  the  remote  corner  of  his 
private  office  they  knew  that  he  did  it  in 
order  to  place  a  poem  in  the  drawer  of 
an  old  bureau  in  which  he  kept  the  ac- 
cepted manuscript;  but  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  came  directly  to  the  door  a  hor- 
rible feeling  of  anxiety  came  into  every 
mind,  and  each  poet  uttered  a  silent 
prayer — while  his  heart  literally  stood 
still  within  him — that  the  blow  might 
fall  on  some  head  other  than  his  own. 

On  this  occasion  my  friend  received 
ten  dollars  for  his  poem  entitled  "  When 
27 


THE  LITEEAET  SHOP 

the  Baby  Smiled,"  and  in  the  fullness  of 
his  heart  he  invited  the  author  of  the 
rejected  verses  on  "Resignation" — who, 
by  the  way,  was  uttering  the  most  hor- 
rible curses  as  he  descended  the  staircase 
— to  join  us  in  a  drink. 

It  was  on  this  occasion,  also,  as  I  dis- 
tinctly remember,  that  my  friend  the  poet 
put  the  whole  trade  of  letters  in  a  nut- 
shell: 

"There  are  plenty  of  people,"  he  re- 
marked, "  who  can  write  good  good  stuff, 
but  there  are  not  many  who  can  write 
good  bad  stuff.  Here's  one  of  those 
'  Two  Brothers '  poems  I  told  you  about, 
and  if  that  isn't  good  bad  stuff,  I'd  like 
to  know  what  is."  He  handed  me  a 
printed  copy  of  the  poem,  and  I  can  still 
recall  the  first  verses  of  it : 


Herbert  to  the  city  went, 
Though  as  sturdy  was  his  arm 

As  plain  Tom's,  who,  quite  content, 
Stayed  at  home  upon  the  farm. 
28 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Herbert  wore  a  broadcloth  coat, 
Thomas  wore  the  homespun  gray ; 

Herbert  on  display  did  dote, 
Thomas  labored  every  day. 


These  lines  have  clung  to  my  memory 
during  many  changing  years,  and  I  quote 
them  now  with  undimmed  admiration  as 
almost  the  best  example  of  "good  bad 
stuff  "  that  our  literature  possesses.  And 
if  the  lines  compel  our  regard,  what  must 
be  oui'  respect  for  the  genius  which  could 
extract  sixteen  ten-dollar  poems  from  the 
one  primitive  idea  of  the  two  rustic  broth- 
ers? 

The  bard  who  penned  these  deathless 
stanzas  has  progressed  with  the  times, 
and  now  writes  many  a  poem  for  the 
Century  and  Scribner's,  but  I  never  see  his 
name  in  one  of  the  great  monthlies  with- 
out thinking  of  the  days  when  he  used 
to  sit  in  the  outer  office  of  the  Ledger, 
with  half  a  dozen  of  his  contemporaries, 
wondering  whether  he  would  get  a  ten- 
29 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

dollar  bill  or  his  rejected  poem  when  Mr. 
Bonner  came  out  to  separate  the  chaff 
from  the  wheat. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  wonder  what 
became  of  all  the  poetiy  that  was  rejected 
by  Mr.  Bonner,  and  to  these  I  would  re- 
ply that  it  was  seldom,  indeed,  that  any 
literary  matter — either  in  prose  or  in 
verse — was  allowed  to  go  to  waste.  The 
market  was  not  as  large  then  as  it  is 
now,  and  a  serious  poem  could  "make 
the  rounds  "  in  a  very  short  time.  If  it 
failed  as  a  serious  effort  it  was  an  easy 
matter  for  a  practical  poet  to  add  to  it 
what  was  called  a  "comic  snapper,"  by 
virtue  of  which  it  could  be  offered  to 
Puck  or  Wild  Oats. 

For  instance,  a  poet  of  my  acquain- 
tance once  told  me  that  he  wrote  a  poem 
about  "Thrifty  Tom,"  as  he  called  him, 
who  insured  his  life  for  a  large  sum  of 
money,  paid  the  premiums  for  two  or 
three  years,  and  then  died,  leaving  his 
30 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

wife  and  children  comfortably  provided 
for.  Now  it  happened  that  the  great 
Scotch  editor  did  not  believe  in  life-in- 
surance as  an  investment — the  Ledger 
published  no  advertisements  of  any  de- 
scription in  those  days,  so  he  was  enabled 
to  view  the  matter  with  an  unbiased  mind 
— and  therefore  he  declined  the  verses, 
not  wishing  to  promote  the  interests  of  a 
scheme  which  he  could  not  indorse.  And 
straightway  the  poet  sate  himself  down 
and  gave  to  his  stanzas  a  comic  snapper 
which  told  how  "  Idle  Bill "  proceeded  to 
court  and  marry  the  widow,  and  passed 
the  remainder  of  his  days  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  money  which  the  thrifty  one 
had  struggled  so  hard  to  lay  aside  for  his 
family.  In  its  new  form  the  poem  was 
sold  to  Puck,  and  the  word  went  out  to 
all  the  makers  of  prose  and  verse  that 
Bonner  was  "  down  on  life-insurance." 

Is  there  any  demand  for  "good  bad 
stuff"  nowadays? 

31 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

There  is  an  almost  limitless  demand 
for  it,  and  there  always  will  be,  provided 
the  gas-fitters  and  the  paper-hangers  and 
the  intelligent  and  highly  cultivated 
American  women  continue  to  exert  the 
influence  in  the  field  of  letters  that  they 
do  to-day. 

The  "good  bad  stuff"  of  the  present 
era  is  printed  on  supercalendered  paper, 
and  illustrated,  in  many  instances,  with 
pictures  that  are  so  much  better  than  the 
text  that  it  is  difficult  to  comprehend  how 
even  the  simplest  observer  can  fail  to 
notice  the  contrast.  Moreover  the  good 
bad  stuff  of  to-day  commands  much 
higher  prices  than  were  ever  paid  during 
the  Ledger  period,  and  it  is  not  infre- 
quently signed  with  some  name  which 
has  been  made  familiar  to  the  public  ear 
• — if  only  by  mere  force  of  constant  re- 
iteration— and  is  therefore  supposed  to 
possess  a  peculiar  value  of  its  own.  Never- 
theless it  is  good  bad  stuff  all  the  same, 
32 


and  can  be  recognized  as  such  by  those 
whose  eyes  are  too  strong  to  be  blinded 
by  the  glare  from  the  pictures  and  the 
great  big  literary  name. 

Don't  understand  me  to  say  that  there 
is  no  good  prose  or  verse  to  be  found  on 
those  highly  glazed,  beautifully  printed 
pages  to  which  we  of  the  present  genera- 
tion of  readers  turn  for  our  literary  re- 
freshment. On  the  contrary,  the  modern 
magazines  give  us  so  much  that  is  admi- 
rable, so  many  thoughtful  essays  and  de- 
scriptive articles,  that  one  wonders  only 
why  so  much  of  the  fiction  which  they 
offer  should  be  of  such  poor  calibre. 

But  the  editors  and  publishers  of  the 
great  monthlies  know  what  they  are 
about  as  well  as  Mr.  Bonner  ever  did, 
and  they  know,  too,  the  immense  value  of 
the  good  bad  stuff  whicli  they  serve  to 
their  patrons  in  such  tempting  and  decep- 
tive forms. 


33 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  EARLY  HOLLAND  PERIOD. 

WHEN,  near  the  close  of  the  year  1870, 
Dr.  J.  G.  Holland  started  Scribner's  Month- 
ly, American  letters  entered  upon  a  new 
stage  of  its  development.  The  literary 
field  was  then  occupied  by  the  poets, 
humorists,  and  essayists  of  the  Pfaff 
school,  dwelling  under  the  perpetual 
shadow  of  the  Bonnerian  maxims,  and 
the  occasional  one  of  pecuniary  depres- 
sion ;  also  a  few  men  of  the  James  Parton 
type  who  knew  not  Bohemia,  and  women 
writers  like  Mrs.  Dallas. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  at  this 
time  no  signatures  were  allowed  in  the 
Harpers'  publications,  and  the  matter 
34 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

published  in  the  Monthly  was  either  of 
foreign  manufacture  or  else  prepared  in 
the  Franklin  Square  Foundry  by  poets 
employed  by  the  week  at  fair  but  not 
exorbitant  wages.  The  Ledger  principles 
were  observed  here  to  a  certain  extent, 
but  were  not  enforced  as  rigidly  as  they 
were  by  Mr.  Bonner  in  his  own  establish- 
ment. I  think,  myself,  that  the  Pfaff 
poets  were  more  directly  accountable  for 
the  introduction  of  the  Bonnerian  max- 
ims than  were  the  Harpers  themselves, 
because  they  had  become  so  accustomed 
to  eliminate  stepmothers,  sisters,  fast  trot- 
ters, and  other  objectionable  features 
from  their  work  that  they  had  come  to 
regard  them  as  quite  as  much  outside  the 
pale  of  ordinary  fiction  as  if  they  were 
dwellers  on  the  planet  Mars.  Moreover 
a  poem  or  story  constructed  on  the  Bon- 
ner plan  might,  if  rejected  by  the  Har- 
pers, still  prove  acceptable  to  the  Ledger. 
From  the  very  first  Dr.  Holland  showed 
35 


THE  LITERARY  SSOP 

a  commendable  purpose  to  raise  the  tone 
of  the  new  Monthly  above  that  of  Mr. 
Bonner's  story-paper,  and  although  we 
see  distinct  evidences,  in  his  earlier  num- 
.  bers,  of  Ledger  influences,  it  was  not  long 
before  a  gradual  emancipation  from  the 
strictest  and  most  literal  interpretation 
of  Mr.  Bonner's  iron-clad  rules  began. 
Horses  soon  began  to  strike  a  swifter 
gait  in  the  serial  stories,  and  in  "  Wilfred 
Cumbermede"  one  of  these  quadrupeds 
has  the  hardihood  to  throw  its  rider  over 
its  head.  But  that  would  never  have 
happened  if  George  Macdonald  had  been 
trained  in  the  modern  Ledger  school  of 
fiction. 

Looking  over  these  old  numbers  in  the 
light  of  ripened  knowledge,  I  can  see  Dr. 
Holland  slowly  groping  his  way  along  an 
untrodden  pathway  leading  from  the 
Ledger  office  to  the  broad  fields  of  litera- 
ture, where  our  magazine  barons  hold  un- 
disputed sway.  That  he  kept  a  watchful 
36 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

eye  on  his  rural  subscribers  is  shown  by 
an  extended  illustrated  article  on  Fair- 
mount  Park,  and  another  one  descriptive 
of  Philadelphia — subjects  which  possess 
about  as  much  interest  for  metropolitan 
readers  as  that  masterpiece  of  bucolic 
romance,  The  Opening  of  a  Chestnut  Burr. 
Among  the  writers  whose  names  appear 
in  these  numbers  are  Alice  Gary,  Edward 
Eggleston,  J.  T.  Headley,  and  Washington 
Gladden — all  graduates  or  disciples  of 
the  great  Ledger  school. 

Of  these  I  consider  Washington  Glad- 
den entitled  to  the  highest  rank  as  an  ex- 
ponent of  mediocrity.  Indeed,  after  a 
careful  survey  of  the  magazine  barons' 
wide  domain,  I  must  award  the  palm  of 
merit  to  this  popular  manufacturer  of 
literary  wares  for  even  mediocrity,  un- 
spoiled by  the  slightest  sense  of  humor. 
It  is  that  very  lack  of  humor  which  has 
brought  success  to  many  a  man  whose 
mission  in  life  has  been  to  write  for  the 
37 


THE  LITERAEY  SHOP 

great,  simple-minded  public.  The  poets 
and  humorists  of  the  Jack  Moran  school, 
who  were  compelled  to  descend  to  the 
commonplace  and  the  stupid  because  of 
their  temporal  necessities,  never  really 
became  thorough  masters  of  the  divine 
art  of  writing  mediocrity,  because  their 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  brought  them  to  a 
halt  before  those  Alpine  heights  of  tedious 
imbecility  which  people  like  E.  P.  Roe 
and  "Washington  Gladden  scaled  with  un- 
blanched  cheeks. 

But  to  return  to  Washington  Gladden. 
If  any  of  the  large  and  thoughtful  circle 
whom  I  have  the  honor  to  address  have 
never  read  a  story  from  this  gentleman's 
pen,  entitled  The  Christian  League  of  Con- 
necticut, I  implore  them  to  seek  out  the 
numbers  of  the  Century  in  which  it  ap- 
peared about  a  decade  ago,  and  sit  down 
to  the  enjoyment  of  one  of  the  finest 
specimens  of  unconscious  humor  that  our 
generation  has  known. 
38 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

This  story  deals  with  a  league  com- 
posed of  all  the  Protestant  churches  in  a 
small  Connecticut  town,  for  the  promo- 
tion of  large-hearted  geniality  and  mutual 
aid  in  the  work  of  evangelization.  It 
contains  a  description  of  a  scene  in  the 
Methodist  Church  at  the  moment  when  it 
seems  that  the  congregation  will  be  un- 
able to  raise  the  debt  which  has  long 
weighed  them  down.  They  are  about  to 
abandon  the  attempt,  when  the  other 
churches  in  the  town  learn  of  their  dis- 
tress and  proceed  to  help  them  out.  The 
First  Congregational  Church  pledges 
$1675,  the  Universalist  Church  sends 
$500,  and  finally  the  Second  Congrega- 
tional Church  raises  the  ante  to  $1810, 
while  the  people  burst  forth  into  shouts 
of  "  Hallelujah !  "  and  fervent  songs  of 
praise. 

If  any  one  were  to  write  a  wild  bur- 
lesque on  the  ecclesiastical  methods  in 
vogue  in  Connecticut  he  would  fall  far 
39 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

short  of  Mr.  Gladden's  account  of  this 
extraordinary  meeting.  The  New  Eng- 
land country  parson  who  gets  his  salary 
regularly  is  a  fortunate  man,  and  as  to 
subscriptions  for  the  church,  they  are 
usually  collected  with  the  aid  of  a  stom- 
ach-pump. I  have  never  yet  heard  of  a 
man  giving  anything  toward  any  church 
save  that  in  which  he  had  a  pew,  but  I  do 
remember  the  scene  which  ensued  one 
morning  in  a  little  country  meeting- 
house, when  the  richest  man  in  the  con- 
gregation relaxed  his  grip  on  three  hun- 
dred dollars — and  there  was  a  string  tied 
to  every  bill,  too. 

Another  chapter  of  The  Christian  League 
tells  us  how  Judge  Beeswax  returned  to 
his  native  village  from  the  city  in  which 
he  had  grown  wealthy,  and  generously 
gave  a  thousand  dollars  to  save  the  old 
church,  in  which  he  had  worshiped  as  a 
boy,  from  being  sold  for  old  timber. 

And  this  denouement  bears  such  a  won- 

40 


THE  LITEEAET  SHOP 

derful  resemblance  to  that  in  eight  of 
the  sixteen  "Two  Brothers " poems  that 
I  am  half  inclined  to  suspect  that  in  his 
younger  days  Mr.  Gladden  was  one  of  the 
poets  who  turned  up  at  the  Ledge)'  office 
every  Friday  and  waited  for  the  verdict. 

And  I  am  sure  that  Dr.  Holland  had 
been,  in  his  time,  a  close  student  of  the 
Bonnerian  maxims,  and  especially  of  that 
which  I  have  already  alluded  to — "In 
real  life,  yes ;  but  not  in  the  New  York 
Ledger  !  "  To  which  might  be  added,  "  nor 
in  the  old  Scribner's  either."  All  through 
the  Holland  period  we  find  evidences  of 
the  deep  hold  that  this  maxim  had  taken 
on  the  minds  of  both  writers  and  barons. 

For  example,  I  believe  that  it  is  pretty 
well  known  that  extreme  prohibition 
measures  bring  about  the  most  degrad- 
ing and  terrible  forms  of  drunkenness 
known  outside  of  Liverpool,  and  that  of 
all  the  prohibitory  statutes  the  Maine 
Liquor  Law  is  about  the  worst.  That  is 
41 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

the  case  in  real  life,  but  not  in  Scribner's 
Monthly,  for  in  the  year  1877— Dr.  Hol- 
land being  then  the  dominant  figure  in 
American  letters — we  find  in  an  article 
on  the  Rangeley  Lakes  the  following 
paragraph :  "  The  Maine  Liquor  Law  has 
certainly  put  an  end  to  this  regime  (a 
barrel  of  rum  to  a  barrel  of  beans),  and 
with  it  have  disappeared  to  a  very  great 
extent  drunkenness,  profanity,  and  kin- 
dred vices." 

Yes,  my  carping  friend,  we  all  know 
that  the  sentence  which  I  have  quoted  is 
ridiculously  untrue,  and  entirely  out  of 
place  in  a  very  interesting  article  on 
trout-fishing,  but  there  was  just  as  good 
a  reason  for  printing  it  as  there  was  for 
publishing  The  Christian  League  of  Con- 
necticut. That  paragraph  was  well  calcu- 
lated to  please  folks  of  the  variety  that 
swooped  down  upon  New  York  thirty 
thousand  strong,  under  the  banner  of  the 
Christian  Endeavor  Society. 

42 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

I  do  not  know  why  it  is,  but  people  of 
this  class  fairly  revel  in  humbug  of  every 
description,  and  nothing  pleases  them 
more  than  to  read  about  the  beneficent 
influences  of  prohibitoiy  legislation,  or  to 
swallow  once  more  the  old  Anglo-Saxon 
lie  about  Albion's  virtue  and  the  wicked- 
ness of  France — and  if  you  would  like  to 
see  that  miserable  fallacy  whacked  in  the 
head  read  Mr.  BrownelPs  French  Traits — 
or  even  to  gloat  over  Mr.  Gladden's  story 
of  the  princely  generosity  that  prevails 
in  the  religious  circles  of  New  England. 

These  Christian  Endeavor  people  are  a 
mystery  to  me.  More  than  thirty  thou- 
sand of  them  took  possession  of  our  city, 
and  there  was  one  erring  brother  among 
them  who  fell  by  the  wayside,  and  was 
locked  up  in  the  House  of  Detention, 
charged  with  having  been  robbed  of  his 
return-ticket  and  about  two  hundred 
dollars  in  money.  He  was  confined 
nearly  a  week,  and  during  that  time  not 
43 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

one  of  his  fellow  Christian  Endeavorers 
held  out  a  helping  hand  to  him.  If  the 
unfortunate  man  had  come  on  from  the 
West  to  attend  a  convention  of  sneak- 
thieves  he  would  have  fared  better  than 
he  did. 

"  But  what  have  the  Christian  Endea- 
vorers to  do  with  literature?"  asks  my 
doubting  and  critical  friend.  They  have 
a  great  deal  to  do  with  literature  just 
now,  more's  the  pity.  I  did  not  drag 
them  into  these  pages  by  the  neck  and 
ears  simply  to  say  what  I  thought  of 
them  (although  I  am  not  sorry  to  do 
that),  but  to  give  my  audience  an  idea  of 
one  of  the  elements — and  it  is  a  large 
one,  too — to  which  our  magazine  pub- 
lishers are  obliged  to  cater,  if  they  wish 
to  hold  their  own  in  point  of  circulation. 

It  is  because  of  just  such  people  as 
these  that  our  periodical  literature  is 
constantly  defaced  by  matter  of  the  sort 
that  I  have  mentioned,  and  we  are  all  the 

44 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

time  saying,  just  as  Bonner  said  to  the 
Pfaff  poet,  "It's  one  thing  in  real  life, 
but  another  in  Harper's  and  the  Century." 
So  it  happens  that  intelligent  human  be- 
ings must  have  their  nostrils  assailed  with 
rubbish  about  the  Maine  Liquor  Law 
putting  a  stop  to  profanity,  because,  for- 
sooth, it  is  supposed  to  tickle  the  palates 
of  a  lot  of  sniveling  humbugs,  who  are 
so  busy  with  prayers  and  psalm-singing 
that  they  have  not  time  to  perform  the 
commonest  acts  of  decency  and  charity 
for  one  of  their  own  kith  and  kin. 

Understand  me,  I  am  not  blaming  the 
barons  for  putting  stuff  of  this  sort  into 
their  publications.  If  I  were  the  propri- 
etor of  a  great  magazine  I  would  have  a 
picture  of  Robert  Bonner  over  my  desk, 
and  the  walls  of  my  editorial  rooms  and 
business  offices  should  be  hung  with  the 
great  Ledger  maxims.  There  are  a  thou- 
sand mediocre  people  in  this  country  to 
where  there  are  five  of  superior  intelli- 

45 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

gence ;  but,  after  all,  the  five  have  some 
rights  that  magazine  barons  are  bound 
to  respect,  and  I  think  that  about  Christ- 
mas-time every  year  some  little  attention 
ought  to  be  shown  them. 


16 


CHAPTER  V. 

MENDACITY  DURING  THE  HOLLAND  PERIOD 
OF  LETTERS. 

THE  Holland  age  of  letters  may  be  said 
to  have  extended  over  the  eighth  decade 
of  this  century,  and  that  it  was  an  era  of 
change  and  progress  can  be  readily  seen 
by  a  glance  at  the  periodical  literature  of 
the  seventies. 

It  is  during  this  era,  however,  that  we 
find  indications  of  a  deplorable  tendency 
on  the  part  of  the  good  doctor  to  pander 
to  the  prejudices  of  the  gas-fitter  and  the 
paper-hanger  element,  by  the  publication 
of  stories  and  articles  which  were  either 
spurious  as  literature  or  else  absolutely 
mendacious  as  to  the  facts  which  they 
47 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

recorded  and  the  scenes  which  they  de- 
scribed. 

Of  course  I  do  not  pretend  that  literary 
mendacity  began  under  Dr.  Holland,  for 
the  Ledger  school  was  a  highly  imagina- 
tive one,  at  best ;  but  the  vein  of  untruth 
which  is  found  cropping  out  from  time  to 
time  during  the  eighth  decade  has  proved 
infinitely  more  harmful  to  modern  litera- 
ture than  were  the  lurid  and  confessedly 
improbable  tales  of  bandits  and  haunted 
castles  and  splendid  foreign  noblemen 
which  found  so  many  eager  readers  a 
score  of  years  ago.  The  aristocratic  cir- 
cles of  English  society  which  were  enli- 
vened by  the  nebulous  presence  of  Lady 
Chetwynde's  spectre  were  so  far  removed 
from  those  in  which  the  spellbound  hay- 
maker, who  read  about  them,  had  his  be- 
ing that  it  made  very  little  difference  to 
him — or  to  literary  art  either — whether 
they  were  truthfully  portrayed  or  not; 
but  the  mendacious  and  meretricious 

48 


THE  LITERARY  JSHOP 

literature  which  we  find  in  the  Holland 
period  is  more  pretentious  in  its  imitation 
of  truth,  and  therefore  all  the  more  dan- 
gerous. 

It  was  within  a  year  after  the  first 
number  of  Berliner's  had  been  issued  that 
Dr.  Holland  began  the  publication  of  a 
series  of  papers,  afterward  printed  in 
book  form,  which  deserve  special  mention 
here  because  they  are  so  thoroughly  char- 
acteristic of  the  period  in  which  they  saw 
the  light.  They  are  known  to  the  world 
as  Back-log  Studies,  and  the  average 
reader  of  ordinary  intelligence  will  tell 
you  that  Mr.  Warner's  book  is  "  delight- 
ful reading,"  that  he  possesses  a  "  dainty 
style,"  and  that  his  studies  of  the  open 
fireplace  are  "fresh,  original,  and  alto- 
gether charming." 

Now  did  you  ever  happen  to  read  The 

Reveries  of  a  Bachelor  ?    If  you  did  you 

will  admit  that  there  was  very  little  left 

in   an   oDen   fire  when  Ik  Marvel  got 

49 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

through  with  it;  and  if  you  have  also 
read  Back-log  Studies  in  the  conscientious, 
critical  way  in  which  all  books  should  be 
read,  then  you  will  agree  with  me  in  my 
opinion  that  Mr.  Warner  found  very  little 
to  say  about  it  that  had  not  already  been 
much  better  said  by  Marvel. 

The  book  is  neither  fresh  nor  original 
nor  charming,  but  it  imitates  those  qual- 
ities so  artistically  and  successfully  that 
it  has  won  for  itself  a  unique  place  in  the 
literature  of  a  period  in  which  the  Ledger 
and  the  Holland  schools  of  fiction  may 
be  said  to  have  struggled  for  the  suprem- 
acy. 

I  do  not  call  Back-log  Studies  menda- 
cious. They  are  merely  imitative,  and 
deserve  mention  here  only  because  they 
were  put  together  with  so  much  clever- 
ness that  nearly  the  whole  of  the  reading 
public  has  been  deluded  into  believing 
them  wholly  original  and  of  a  high  order 
of  merit. 

50 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

In  a  previous  chapter  I  have  cited  cer- 
tain glaring  examples  of  mendacity  that 
occurred  during  the  Holland  period ;  but 
none  of  them  deserves  to  rank,  in  point  of 
barefaced  and  unscrupulous  perversion 
of  facts,  with  Abbott's  Life  of  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  published  in  Harpers  Magazine 
years  before  Dr.  Holland  became  the  lead- 
ing figure  in  American  letters,  which  he 
was  during  the  seventies.  Nor  should  we 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  present 
literary  age  has  given  birth  to  no  end  of 
stories  and  novels  and  descriptive  articles 
which  are  disgracefully  mendacious  in 
color,  fact,  and  sentiment. 

But  if  you,  my  dear  reader,  would  like 
to  see  a  descriptive  article  which  is  abso- 
lutely matchless  in  point  of  mendacity 
and  asinine  incompetency,  turn  to  the 
June  Scribner's  of  1875 — the  very  middle 
of  the  Holland  age — and  read  what  a 
certain  Mr.  Rhodes  has  to  say  about  the 
Latin  Quarter  of  Paris.  I  suppose  the 
51 


THE  LITEEAET  SHOP 

whole  world  does  not  contain  a  corner 
that  offers  so  much  that  is  picturesque, 
fascinating,  interesting  —  in  short,  so  well 
worth  writing  about  —  as  the  Quartier 
Latin  in  the  French  capital. 

At  the  time  this  article  was  printed 
there  were  dozens  of  clever  young  men  — 
Bohemians,  poets,  and  humorists  of  the 
class  that  used  to  gather  in  Pfaff's  of  a 
Saturday  night  to  make  merry  with  the 
" tenner"  received  the  day  before  for  a 
Ledger  poem  entitled  "Going  Home  to 
Mother"  or  "Be  Prepared ;  Bow  to  the 
Will  Divine."  I  doubt  if  we  have  to-day 
young  men  better  equipped  for  the  task 
of  describing  the  student  life  of  Paris 
than  were  those  who  dwelt  in  our  own 
Bohemia  in  1875.  But  the  conductors  of 
Scribne^s  Monthly  passed  them  by  and 
intrusted  the  work  to  this  Albert  Rhodes, 
concerning  whom  history  is  silent,  but 
who  seems  to  have  been  more  incompe- 
tent and  more  unworthy  of  his  great  op- 
52 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

portunity  than  any  human  being  on  the 
face  of  the  earth. 

What  shall  we  say  of  a  man  who  quotes 
one  of  the  best  things  in  the  Scenes  de  la 
Vie  de  Boheme  and  then  blandly  remarks 
that  he  does  not  see  anything  funny  in 
it? 

That  is  precisely  what  Mr.  Rhodes 
does.  He  prints  the  program  of  the  soire'e 
given  by  Rodolphe  and  Marcel,  and  then 
observes,  with  the  solemnity  of  a  Central 
Park  pelican :  "  There  is  nothing  very 
humorous  in  this,  as  will  be  observed,  and 
yet  it  may  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  best 
specimens  of  Murger's  genre." 

Well,  I  can  inform  Mr.  Rhodes,  and 
also  the  simple-minded  folk  who  believed 
in  him  because  he  wrote  for  the  maga- 
zines, that  if  that  chapter  of  the  Vie  de 
Boheme  is  not  funny,  there  is  nothing 
funny  in  the  world.  It  begins  with  the 
"opening  of  the  salons  and  entry  and 
promenade  of  the  witty  authors  of  the 

53 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Mountain  in  Labor,  a  comedy  rejected  by 
the  Odeon  Theatre,"  and  closes  with  the 
significant  warning  that  "  persons  at- 
tempting to  read  or  recite  poetry  will  be 
cast  into  outer  darkness." 

The  gifted  Mr.  Rhodes  was  probably 
in  doubt  as  to  the  humor  of  this  passage 
because  it  is  not  prefixed  with  "Our 
friend  K sends  the  '  Drawer '  the  fol- 
lowing good  one,"  and  because  its  point  is 
not  indicated  by  italics  after  the  fashion 
of  humor  of  the  Ayer's  Almanac  school ; 
but  he  can  rest  assured  that  that  brief 
quotation  from  Murger  is  the  funniest 
thing  in  his  essay,  always  excepting  his 
own  bovine  lack  of  perception.  It  is 
particularly  funny  to  me  because  I  have 
sometimes  witnessed  the  "entry  and 
promenade"  through  the  salons  of  the 
witty  authors  of  stories  that  have  been 
accepted  by  magazines — a  spectacle  cal- 
culated to  produce  prolonged  and  hilari- 
ous merriment — and  I  have  often  wished 

54 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

that  the  recitation  clause  in  the  Bohe- 
mian's program  could  be  enforced  in 
every  house  in  the  town. 

I  have  devoted  a  good  deal  of  space  to 
this  long-forgotten  article  because  it  is  a 
fair  sample  of  the  sort  of  stuff  that  is 
offered  to  us  from  time  to  time,  prepared 
especially  for  us,  like  so  much  baby's 
food,  by  men  and  women  who  are  care- 
fully selected  by  the  magazine  barons,  and 
who  generally  rival  Mr.  Rhodes  in  point 
of  simian  incompetence  and  utter  lack  of 
all  appreciative  or  perceptive  qualities. 

But  let  us  turn  from  the  awful  specta- 
cle of  Mr.  Rhodes  standing  like  a  lone 
penguin  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Latin 
Quarter  of  Paris,  and  wailing  mournfully 
about  the  poor  girl  who  "  sometimes  com- 
pels the  young  man  to  marry  her."  A 
far  brighter  picture  is  that  presented  by 
the  distinguished  English  gentleman  who, 
having  won  the  highest  distinction  with 
his  pencil,  takes  up  his  pen  with  the  air 
55 


THE  LITER AET  SHOP 

of  one  who  is  enjoying  a  holiday  fairly 
earned  by  a  lifetime  of  toil,  and  portrays 
the  real  Quartier  Latin  of  the  Second  Em- 
pire with  a  humor  that  makes  us  think 
of  Henri  Murger,  and  with  a  delicacy  of 
touch,  a  human  sympathy,  and  a  tendency 
to  turn  aside  and  moralize  that  place  him 
very  near  to  Thackeray. 

If  you  wish  to  read  a  story  which  is  at 
once  human,  truthful,  and  interesting, 
read  George  Du  Maurier's  "  Trilby,"  and 
note  the  skill  with  which  he  has  caught 
the  very  essence  of  the  spirit  of  student 
life,  preserved  it  for  a  third  of  a  century, 
and  then  given  it  to  us  in  all  its  fresh- 
ness, and  with  the  fire  of  an  artistic  youth 
blended  with  the  philosophy  and  worldly 
knowledge  that  belong  only  to  later  life. 

To  read  "  Trilby  "  is  to  open  a  box  in 
which  some  rare  perfume  has  been  kept 
for  thirty  odd  years,  and  to  drink  in  the 
fragrance  that  is  as  pervading  and  strong 
and  exquisite  as  ever. 
56 


THE  LITER  ART  SHOP 

And  while  we  are  enjoying  this  charm- 
ing story,  let  us  not  forget  to  give  thanks 
to  the  Harpers  for  the  courage  which  they 
have  shown  in  publishing  it,  for  if  there 
is  anything  calculated  to  injure  them  in 
the  eyes  of  the  gas-fitters  and  paper- 
hangers  it  is  a  novel  in  which  the  truth 
is  told  in  the  high-minded,  cleanly,  and 
straightforward  fashion  in  which  Mr.  Du 
Maurier  tells  it  here.  Fancy  the  f  eelings 
of  a  Christian  Endeavorer — the  modern 
prototype  of  the  Levite  who  passed  by  on 
the  other  side — on  finding  in  a  publi- 
cation of  the  sort  which  he  has  always 
found  as  soothing  to  his  prejudices  and 
hypocrisy  and  pet  meannesses  as  the  pur- 
ring of  a  cat  on  a  warm  hearthstone — 
fancy  the  f  eelings  of  such  an  one  as  he 
finds  the  mantle  of  charity  thrown  over 
the  sins  and  weaknesses  of  the  erring, 
suffering,  exquisitely  human  Latin  Quar- 
ter model. 

One  need  not  read  more  than  a  single 
57 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

instalment  of  "  Trilby  "  to  realize  that  its 
author  never  learned  the  trade  of  letters 
in  either  the  Ledger  primary  school  or  the 
Dr.  Holland  academy,  for  there  is  scarcely 
a  chapter  that  does  not  fairly  teem  with 
matter  that  has  long  been  forbidden  in  all 
well-regulated  magazine  offices,  and  I 
know  that  a  great  many  experienced 
manufacturers  of  and  dealers  in  serial 
fiction  believe  that  it  marks  a  new  era  in 
literature. 

But  to  return  to  our  sheep — and  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  Rhodes  the  word  is  an 
apt  one — why  was  that  article  about  the 
Latin  Quarter  of  Paris  published  ? 

Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  think  it 
was  that  the  Scribner  people  did  not  know 
any  better,  or  because  Mr.  Rhodes  be- 
longed to  that  "  ring  of  favored  contrib- 
utors" of  which  one  hears  so  much  in 
certain  artistic  circles.  In  reply,  let  me 
say  that  the  "  ring  of  favored  contribu- 
tors "  is  a  myth,  or  at  least  I  have  never 

58 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

been  able  to  find  reasonable  proof  of  its 
existence.  Magazine  editors  buy  exactly 
what  they  consider  suitable  for  their 
readers,  and  they  buy  from  whoever 
offers  what  they  want.  If  they  allowed 
themselves  to  be  influenced  by  their  small 
personal  likes  and  dislikes  the  whole  lit- 
erary system  which  they  have  reared 
would  go  to  pieces,  and  some  dialect- 
writers  that  I  wot  of  would  be  "  back  on 
the  old  farm,"  like  the  slick  chaps  in  eight 
of  the  "  Two  Brothers  "  poems. 

As  for  the  Scribner  editors  "  not  know- 
ing any  better,"  let  none  be  deceived. 
They  have  always  known  a  great  deal 
more  than  their  rejected  contributors 
gave  them  credit  for,  and  there  was  a 
distinct  and  vital  reason  for  every  im- 
portant step  that  they  took  in  building 
up  the  magnificent  property  now  known 
the  world  over  as  the  Century  Magazine. 
Personally  I  have  the  highest  confidence 
in  the  wisdom  of  the  magazine  barons. 
59 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

If  a  barbed- wire  fence  is  stretched  across 
a  certain  pasture  it  is  with  a  purpose 
as  definite  and  rational  as  that  which 
led  Mr.  Bonner  to  reject  Jack  Moran's 
"Stepmother's  Prayer"  and  pay  $160 
for  the  sixteen  poems  about  the  two 
brothers. 

No ;  there  was  something  in  this  article 
that  made  it  valuable  for  magazine  pur- 
poses. It  was  well  calculated  to  please 
those  who  revel  in  that  sniveling  Anglo- 
Saxon  hypocrisy  and  humbug  about 
British  virtue  and  the  wickedness  of  the 
French  people.  Mr.  Rhodes  was  employed 
by  Dr.  Holland  because  he  was  probably 
the  only  living  creature  who  could  stand 
on  the  spot  from  which  has  come  so 
much  that  has  made  the  world  brighter 
and  better  and  happier,  and  utter  his  silly 
platitudes  about  "young  men  draining 
the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs."  I  say 
that  the  editor  of  Scribne^s  had  just  as 
good  a  reason  for  publishing  the  Quartier 
60 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Latin  essay  as  Mr.  Bonner  had  for  being 
"  down  on  stepmothers  "  and  refusing  all 
poems  that  treated  of  them :  Dr.  Holland 
was  doim  on  gnsettes. 


61 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  DAWN  OP  THE  JOHNSONIAN  PERIOD. 

WHEN  the  good  Dr.  Holland  passed 
away,  his  mantle  descended  upon  the 
shoulders  of  Mr.  R.  U.  Johnson,  the  fore- 
most of  his  disciples,  and  one  who  had 
literally  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  great  master 
of  the  eighth  decade  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, and  learned  from  his  lips  the  death- 
less principles  of  modern  magazine  edit- 
ing. Since  then  Mr.  Johnson  has,  in  his 
capacity  of  associate  editor  of  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine,  so  skillfully  blended  the 
methods  of  the  canny  Scotch  Ledger  edi- 
tor with  those  of  Dr.  Holland  that  he  has 
not  only  kept  his  own  periodical  well  in 
the  lead,  but  has  also  set  the  pace  for 
62 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

American  literature  and  compelled  his 
rivals  to  watch  his  movements  at  all  times 
with  the  closest  care,  and  frequently  to 
imitate  him. 

I  first  heard  of  the  existence  of  Mr. 
Johnson,  who  is  unquestionably  the  one 
dominant  figure  in  American  literature 
of  to-day,  about  fourteen  years  ago,  just 
as  I  was  beginning  to  learn  something 
about  the  trade  of  writing.  I  had  placed 
in  the  hands  of  a  literary  friend — now 
well  known  as  one  of  the  most  successful 
of  the  modern  school  of  story-writers — 
the  manuscript  of  a  story  which  dealt 
with  the  criminal  life  of  the  lower  east 
side  of  the  town,  and  was  wondering  how 
soon  I  was  to  awake  and  find  myself 
famous  when  my  manuscript  was  re- 
turned to  me  with  a  brief  note  from  my 
friend,  in  which  he  said : 

"  I  read  your  story  through  yesterday, 
and  was  so  much  pleased  with  it  that  my 
first  impulse  was  to  take  it  to  the  Century 

63 


THE  LITER ART  SHOP 

Magazine.  Indeed,  I  would  have  done  so 
had  I  not  remembered  at  that  moment  that 
Johnson  does  not  like  low  life;  so  you 
had  better  try  one  of  the  daily  papers." 

"  Johnson  does  not  like  low  life ! " 

That  was  encouraging  news  for  a  young 
man  who  believed  that  literary  methods 
had  not  materially  altered  since  the  days 
when  Oliver  Goldsmith  wrote  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield. 

The  pen  fell  from  my  hand — it  hap- 
pened to  be  employed  just  then  on  a 
story  dealing  with  life  in  a  Pell  Street 
opium-joint — and  I  said  to  myself :  "Mer- 
ciful heavens !  must  I  devote  my  life  to 
the  delineation  of  what  are  called  society 
types,  simply  because  Johnson — whoever 
he  may  be — does  not  like  low  life?" 

I  think  that  if  I  had  known  then  that 
low  life  was  only  one  of  a  thousand  things 
that  could  not  meet  the  approval  of  John- 
son, and  that,  moreover,  Bonner  was  down 
on  fast  horses,  stepmothers,  sisters,  matri- 
64 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

monial  cousins,  and  brindle-pups,  I  would 
have  thrown  down  my  pen  and  endea- 
vored to  support  myself  in  some  other 
way. 

But  I  did  not  know  anything  about 
the  practical  side  of  literature  then,  so  I 
blundered  on,  wasting  a  great  deal  of 
time  over  forbidden  topics,  until  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Jack  Moran  and 
others  of  his  school,  who  welcomed  me  to 
Bohemia,  and  generously  bade  me  share 
their  treasure-house  of  accrued  know- 
ledge of  editorial  likes  and  dislikes.  My 
low-life  story — in  my  sublime  faith  I  had 
written  it  on  the  flimsiest  sort  of  paper — 
traveled  from  one  office  to  another  until 
it  had  eaten  up  $1.28  in  postage  and 
looked  like  Prince  Lorenzo  in  the  last 
act  of  The  Mascot.  Then,  held  together  by 
copper  rivets,  it  sank  into  its  grave  in  the 
old  daily  Truth,  unwept  and  unsigned. 

I  came  across  this  forgotten  offspring 
of  my  literary  youth  not  long  ago,  and 
65 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

candor  compels  me  to  say  that  if  Mr. 
Johnson  had  read  that  story  and  printed 
it  in  the  Century  Magazine  he  would  not 
be  to-day  the  dominant  figure  in  the  lit- 
erature of  our  country  that  he  is.  My 
romance  was  not  nearly  as  good  as  a 
great  many  that  I  have  read  in  daily 
papers  from  the  pens  of  clever  newspaper 
men  who  know  what  they  are  writing 
about.  In  point  of  intense  dramatic  in- 
terest it  was  not  within  a  thousand  miles 
of  the  Sun's  masterly  history  of  the  career 
of  George  Howard,  the  bank  burglar,  who 
was  murdered  in  the  Westchester  woods 
about  fifteen  years  ago.  The  story  of 
Howard's  life  and  crimes  was  told  in  a 
page  of  the  Sun,  I  think  by  Mr.  Amos 
Cummings,  and  if  I  could  find  any  fiction 
equal  to  it  in  one  of  our  magazines  I 
would  gladly  sound  the  praises  of  the 
editor  who  was  courageous  enough  to 
publish  it. 

I  can  afford  to  smile  now  as  I  recall 
66 


THE  LITER AEY  SHOP 

the  bitterness  of  spirit  in  which  I  used  to 
chafe  under  the  restrictions  imposed  upon 
us  by  the  all-powerful  barons  of  liter- 
ature. I  used  to  console  my  wounded 
vanity  then  by  picturing  to  myself  a 
bright  future,  when  Johnson  would 
stretch  out  his  hands  to  me  and  beg  me 
to  place  on  the  tip  of  his  parched  tongue 
a  few  pages  of  my  cooling  and  invigora- 
ting manuscript.  And  with  what  derision 
would  I  have  laughed  then  had  any  one 
told  me  that  in  the  years  to  come  I  would 
be  the  one  to  accord  to  Mr.  Johnson  the 
honor  which  is  his  just  due,  and  to  recog- 
nize the  wisdom  which  he  showed  in  re- 
jecting my  story  of  low  life ! 

A  truthful  portrayal  of  life  among  the 
criminal  and  vicious  classes  would  be  as 
much  out  of  place  in  the  Century  Maga- 
zine as  one  depicting  the  love  of  a  wid- 
ower for  his  own  cousin,  whom  he  took 
out  to  ride  behind  a  horse  with  a  record 
of  2.53,  would  have  been  in  the  old  Ledger; 
67 


THE  LITER  ART  SHOP 

and  I  am  positive  that  such  a  thing  will 
not  occur  until  after  the  close  of  the 
present  literary  dynasty. 

There  is  an  excellent  reason  for  this 
prohibition,  too.  There  are  no  people  in 
the  world  who  have  a  greater  horror  of 
what  they  consider  "low"  or  "vulgar" 
than  those  who  are  steeped  in  mediocrity, 
and  who,  in  this  country,  form  a  large 
part  of  the  reading  public.  In  England 
they  are  known  as  the  "lower  middle 
classes,"  and  they  exist  in  countless  thou- 
sands ;  but  they  have  a  literature  of  their 
own — Ouida,  the  Family  Herald,  Ally 
Sloper's  'Alf  'Oliday, — and  writers  like 
George  Meredith  and  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward  and  George  Du  Maurier  pay  no 
attention  to  them  or  to  their  prejudices. 
Nor  does  it  seem  to  me  that  these  writers 
are  as  grievously  hampered  by  consider- 
ation for  the  peachy  cheek  of  the  British 
young  person  as  they  claim  to  be. 

The  fact  that  Johnson  was  down  on  low 
68 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

life  made  a  deep  impression  on  me,  not 
so  much  because  of  what,  I  must  admit,  is 
a  most  reasonable  and  proper  prejudice, 
but  because  I  soon  found  that  every  lit- 
erary man  of  my  acquaintance  was  fully 
aware  of  his  feelings  in  the  matter,  and 
therefore  took  pains  not  to  introduce  into 
a  story  any  scenes  or  characters  which 
might  serve  to  render  the  manuscript  un- 
salable in  the  eyes  of  the  Century  editors ; 
and  as  years  rolled  on  I  could  not  help 
noticing  the  effect  which  this  and  other 
likes  and  dislikes  of  this  literary  Gessler 
had  in  moulding  the  fiction  of  our  day  and 
generation.  And  it  is  because  of  this 
Century  taboo,  which  had  its  origin  in  the 
Ledger  office,  by  the  way,  that  I  know 
of  hardly  a  single  magazine  writer  of  to- 
day who  has  made  himself  familiar  with 
the  great  wealth  of  varied  material  which 
may  be  found  in  that  section  of  New 
York  which  it  is  the  custom  to  refer  to 
vaguely  as  "  the  great  east  side." 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

It  was  not  very  long  after  the  receipt 
of  the  letter  which  thrust  upon  my  be- 
wildered senses  a  nebulous  comprehen- 
sion of  Mr.  Johnson's  influence  and  im- 
portance in  the  domain  of  letters  that  a 
fuller  recognition  of  his  omniscience  was 
wrung  from  me,  all-admiring,  yet  loath 
to  believe.  Mr.  H.  C.  Bunner  had  written 
a  story  called  "The  Red  Silk  Handker- 
chief "  and  sent  it  to  the  Century  office  for 
approval.  The  story  contained  a  graphic 
description  of  the  flagging  of  a  train  to 
avert  a  disaster,  in  which  occurred  the 
following  passage : 

"  .  .  .  and  he  stood  by  the  platform 
of  the  last  car  as  the  express  stopped. 

"  There  was  a  crowd  around  Horace  in 
an  instant.  His  head  was  whirling ;  but, 
in  a  dull  way,  he  said  what  he  had  to  say. 
An  officious  passenger,  who  would  have 
explained  it  all  to  the  conductor  if  the 
conductor  had  waited,  took  the  deliverer 
in  his  arms — for  the  boy  was  near  faint- 
70 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

ing — and  enlightened  the  passengers  who 
flocked  around. 

"Horace  hung  in  his  embrace,  too 
deadly  weak  even  to  accept  the  offer  of 
one  of  the  dozen  flasks  that  were  thrust 
at  him." 

Now  an  ignorant  layman  will,  I  am 
bound,  find  nothing  in  the  quoted  sen- 
tences that  could  possibly  give  offense  to 
the  most  sensitive  reader ;  but  it  was  pre- 
cisely at  the  point  where  the  quotation 
ends  that  the  finely  trained  and  ever-alert 
editorial  sense  of  Mr.  Johnson  told  him 
of  the  danger  that  lurked  in  the  author's 
apparently  innocuous  phrase. 

"  Hold  on  ! "  he  cried ;  "  can't  you 
make  it  two  or  three  flasks  instead  of  a 
dozen  ? " 

Well  did  the  keen-witted  Johnson 
know  that  to  many  a  serious-minded  gas- 
fitter  or  hay-maker  the  spectacle  of  a 
dozen  evil-minded  and  evil-living  men 
riding  roughshod  through  the  pages  of  a 
71 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

family  periodical  and  over  the  feelings 
of  its  readers  would  be  distasteful  in  the 
extreme,  if  not  absolutely  shocking.  Two 
or  three  flasks  would  lend  to  the  scene  a 
delicate  suggestion  of  the  iniquity  of  the 
world,  just  enough  to  make  them  thank 
God  that  they  were  not  as  other  men  are ; 
but  a  dozen  was  altogether  too  much  for 
them,  and  Johnson  was  the  man  who 
knew  it. 

It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  the  author 
very  properly  refused  to  alter  his  manu- 
script, and  the  story  stands,  to-day,  as  it 
was  originally  written. 

It  was  the  flask  episode  that  really 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  peculiar  condi- 
tions which  encompassed  the  modern 
trade  of  letters,  clogging  the  feet  of  the 
laborers  thereof,  and,  while  making  the 
easy  declivities  about  Parnassus  accessi- 
ble to  every  one  who  could  hold  a  pen, 
rendering  its  upper  heights  more  difficult 
to  reach  than  they  ever  were  before.  And 
72 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

it  was  the  same  episode  which  finally 
proved  to  me  Mr.  Johnson's  leadership  in 
contemporaneous  literature  —  a  leader- 
ship which  he  has  held  from  that  day  to 
this  by  sheer  force  of  his  intimate  know- 
ledge of  the  tastes,  prejudices,  and  pecu- 
liarities of  the  vast  army  of  readers  which 
the  Century  Magazine  has  gathered  unto 
itself,  and  still  holds  by  the  closest  of 
ties,  and  will  hold,  in  my  opinion,  so  long 
as  Mr.  Johnson  remains  at  the  helm,  with 
his  pruning-hook  in  Ms  hand,  and  read- 
ing, with  clear,  searching  eyes,  the  inner- 
most thoughts  of  his  subscribers. 

The  present  literary  era  has  given  us 
many  things  to  be  thankful  for,  chief 
among  which  should  be  mentioned  the 
enormous  advance  in  the  art  of  illustra- 
tion— a  blessing  which  is  shadowed  only 
by  the  regretful  knowledge  that  literature 
has  not  kept  pace  with  her  sister  art.  In- 
deed, too  high  praise  cannot  be  given  to 
the  proprietors  of  the  great  monthlies  for 
73 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

the  liberality  and  good  taste  which  they 
have  shown  in  raising  the  pictorial  stan- 
dard of  their  publications  to  its  present 
high  plane,  from  which  it  commands  the 
admiration  of  all  right-minded  people. 
And  if  we  are  living  in  the  Johnsonian 
age  of  letters  we  are  also  living  in  the 
Frazeresque  period  of  art,  for  I  doubt  if 
any  one  man  has  exercised  a  wider  influ- 
ence in  the  field  of  modern  illustration 
than  Mr.  W.  L.  Fraser,  the  maker  of  the 
art  department  of  the  Century.  Nor 
should  we  forget  his  associate,  Mr.  Drake. 
To  the  present  literary  era  we  are  in- 
debted, also,  for  the  higher  development 
of  that  peculiar  form  of  fiction  called  the 
short  story,  the  popularity  of  which  has 
at  least  served  to  give  employment  to 
a  large  number  of  worthy  people  who 
would  otherwise  have  been  compelled  to 
eke  out  an  existence  by  humbler  and 
more  exhausting  forms  of  labor.  No 
sooner  had  the  short-story  fever  taken 
74 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

possession  of  the  magazine  offices  than 
there  appeared  from  various  corners  of 
the  earth  men,  women,  and  children, 
many  of  whom  had  never  written  any- 
thing before  in  their  lives,  but  who  now 
besieged  the  Franklin  and  Union  Square 
strongholds,  bearing  in  their  inky  hands 
manuscript  which  in  many  instances  they 
were  fortunate  enough  to  dispose  of,  to 
the  rage  and  wonder  of  those  old-timers 
who,  having  learned  their  trade  under 
Mr.  Bonner  and  Dr.  Holland,  now  found 
themselves  too  old  to  readily  fall  in  with 
the  new  order  of  things. 

Of  this  new  brood  a  few  were  chosen, 
and  among  them  were  the  writers  of  dia- 
lect stories,  which  enjoyed  an  astonishing 
vogue  for  several  years,  and  are  now, 
happily  enough,  losing  ground.  I  think 
the  banner  writer  of  dialect  stories  of  this 
period  was  a  certain  Mr.  William  McLel- 
lan,  who  contributed  a  number  of  unique 
specimens  of  his  wares  to  Harper's  Month- 
75 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

ly.  He  could  spell  more  words  wrong 
than  any  other  writer  I  ever  heard  of,  and 
I  have  often  wished  that  I  could  read  one 
of  his  stories. 

Some  of  these  short-story  marvels  have 
been  extremely  successful,  and  now  take 
rank  as  first-class  writers  of  fiction.  I 
would  have  a  much  higher  regard  for 
them,  though,  if  they  could  write  novels 
— not  serials,  but  novels. 

Among  other  notable  products  of  the 
fecund  Johnsonian  age  the  future  histo- 
rian of  American  literature  will  dwell  upon 
the  Century  war-papers,  well  calculated  to 
extend  the  circulation  of  the  magazine 
over  vast  areas  in  the  South  as  well  as 
the  North  where  it  had  been  almost  un- 
known before;  the  Siberian  experiences 
of  Mr.  George  Kennan;  autobiographies 
of  celebrated  men  and  women ;  and  idyllic 
phases  of  New  England  life  from  the  pen 
of  the  inimitable  Mr.  Gladden. 

The  Kennan  articles  were  of  enormous 
76 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

value,  apart  from  their  own  intrinsic 
merit,  because  their  purpose  was  the  re- 
form of  certain  abuses.  We  Americans 
are  so  fond  of  reform  that  we  are  always 
getting  it  in  one  shape  or  another,  and 
the  more  we  get  of  it  the  more  we  want ; 
and  these  papers  were  aimed  only  at  the 
Czar  of  Russia  and  his  advisers  —  men 
who  neither  subscribe  for  nor  advertise  in 
American  monthlies.  I  doubt  if  a  prop- 
osition to  undertake  a  crusade  against 
plumbers  and  compel  them  to  lower  their 
prices  would  awaken  a  tidal  wave  of  en- 
thusiasm in  the  Century  office, 


77 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WOMAN'S  INFLUENCE  IN  THE  JOHNSONIAN 
PERIOD. 

IT  seems  to  me  that  so  long  as  a  literary 
man  can  hold  a  pen  in  his  hand  there  is  no 
danger  of  his  going  to  the  poorhouse ;  for 
when  he  becomes  too  old  to  give  satisfac- 
tion as  a  reporter,  or  too  prosy  and  stupid 
to  write  essays  on  "The  Probable  Out- 
come of  the  Briggs  Controversy"  for  the 
religious  journals,  he  can  always  find  a 
purchaser  for  a  series  of  Letters  to  a  Young 
Man  on  the  Threshold  of  Life,  and  the  sillier 
the  letters  the  greater  will  be  their  suc- 
cess. 

I  have  read  dozens  of  books  of  this  sort, 
and  have  often  wondered  at  the  uniform 
78 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

ignorance  and  stupidity  which  character- 
ized them.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
wondered  who  bought  these  books,  for  no 
young  man  on  the  threshold  of  life  would 
be  seen  reading  one  of  them.  I  know  now 
that  they  are  not  written  to  suit  the  tastes 
of  the  young  men  themselves,  but  of  the 
old  grannies  who  will  buy  one  at  Chris- 
mas-time  as  a  present  for  Bob  or  Tom  or 
Bill 

They  are  compiled  either  by  literary 
hacks,  enfeebled  clergymen,  or  women  of 
limited  intelligence,  and  they  are  artfully 
designed  to  ensnare  the  fancy  of  the  sim- 
ple-minded, the  credulous,  and  the  good. 
I  have  noticed  that  those  which  are  plen- 
tifully supplied  with  texts  from  Holy  Writ 
command  the  largest  sale,  provided,  of 
course,  the  texts  are  printed  in  italics. 

I  believe  that  books  of  this  description 

belong  to  what  is  known  technically  as 

the  "  awakening "  class — that  is  to  say, 

they  are  supposed  to  awaken  a  young  man 

79 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

to  a  sense  of  Ms  own  spiritual  degradation. 
I  cannot  answer  for  their  effect  on  very 
young  men,  but  I  do  know  that  they 
awaken  nothing  in  my  heart  but  feelings 
of  uproarious  hilarity ;  for  I  well  remem- 
ber how  the  merry  Bohemians  who  en- 
riched the  literature  of  the  Ledger  age 
with  their  contributions  turned  many  an 
honest  dollar  by  means  of  these  admoni- 
tory letters,  and  not  one  of  these  priceless 
essays  but  contained  its  solemn  preach- 
ment on  the  advantages  to  be  derived 
from  the  companionship  of  good,  pure 
women.  But  never  a  word  was  uttered 
in  regard  to  the  bad  influence  of  good 
women. 

Indeed,  I  can  fancy  nothing  that  would 
have  been  less  in  harmony  with  a  literary 
spirit  which  denied  recognition  to  step- 
mothers, fast  horses,  and  amatory  cousins 
than  a  vivid  bit  of  realism  of  that  sort ; 
and  as  for  the  succeeding  age,  was  not  the 
good  Dr.  Holland  himself  the  author  of 

80 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

the  famous  Timothy  Titcomb  Papers  ?  It 
is  even  too  bald  a  bit  of  truth  for  the 
more  enlightened  Johnsonian  period  in 
which  we  live.  Nevertheless  the  record- 
ing angel  has  a  heavy  score  rolled  up 
against  the  sex  which  it  was  once  the 
chivalrous  fashion  to  liken  to  the  clinging 
vine,  but  which,  as  some  of  us  know,  can 
clutch  as  well  as  cling — a  sex  which 
continues  to  distil  the  most  deadly  and 
enervating  of  intoxicants,  the  flattery  of 
tongue  and  eye,  by  the  same  process  that 
was  known  to  Delilah  and  to  Helen  of 
Troy. 

But  although  the  latter-day  process  of 
distillation  is  undoubtedly  the  same  that 
was  employed  in  centuries  long  gone  by 
the  effects  of  the  poison  are  by  no  means 
the  same  now  that  they  were  then.  In  the 
Homeric  age  it  sent  a  man  forth  to  do 
valiant  if  unnecessary  deeds ;  but  in  the 
present  era  it  slowly  but  surely  robs  the 
young  writer  of  his  originality,  under- 
81 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

mines  his  reputation,  nips  all  healthy 
ambition  in  the  bud,  and  leaves  him  a 
stranded  wreck  of  whom  men  say  con- 
temptuously as  they  pass  by :  "  Bad  case 
of  the  Swelled  Head."  It  may  happen  that 
some  more  thoughtful  of  the  passers-by 
will  have  the  grace  to  put  the  blame  where 
it  belongs  by  adding :  "  That  young  fellow 
was  doing  very  well  two  years  ago,  and 
we  all  thought  he  was  going  to  amount  to 
something;  but  he  fell  in  with  a  lot  of 
silly  women  who  nattered  him  and  told 
him  he  was  the  greatest  writer  in  the 
world.  They  swelled  his  head  so  that  he 
could  not  write  at  all,  and  now  he's  of  no 
use  to  himself  or  any  one  else." 

But  although  these  poor  stranded  hu- 
man wrecks  may  be  encountered  in  every 
large  community  I  have  yet  to  find  a 
writer  of  advice  to  young  men  with  suffi- 
cient courage,  veracity,  and  conscience  to 
utter  a  word  of  warning  against  the  poison 
to  which  so  many  owe  their  fall. 

82 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

In  order  that  I  may  make  clear  my 
meaning  in  regard  to  the  evil  influences  of 
good  women  let  us  imagine  the  unheard- 
of  case  of  a  young  man  who  actually  reads 
one  of  these  books  of  advice  to  young 
men  on  life's  threshold,  and  is  sufficiently 
influenced  by  its  teachings  to  seek  the  sort 
of  female  companionship  which  he  is  told 
will  prove  of  such  enduring  benefit  to 
him,  This  young  man,  we  will  say,  is  be- 
ginning his  literary  career  in  the  very  best 
possible  way,  as  a  reporter  on  a  great 
morning  newspaper.  He  is  not  a  "  jour- 
nalist," nor  a  compiler  of  "  special  stories  " 
(which  the  city  editor  always  takes  special 
pains  to  crowd  out),  nor  is  he  "writing 
brevier  "  or  "  doing  syndicate  work."  He 
is  just  a  plain  reporter  of  the  common  or 
garden  kind ;  and  very  glad  he  is  to  be 
one,  too,  for  he  and  his  fellows  know  that 
the  reporter  wields  the  most  influential 
pen  in  America  in  the  present  year  of 
grace. 

83 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

And  every  day  this  young  man  adds 
some  new  experience  to  the  store  of 
worldly  knowledge  which  will  be  his  sole 
capital  in  the  profession  which  he  has 
chosen.  To-day  the  task  of  reporting  the 
strike  at  the  thread-mills  gives  him  an  in- 
sight into  the  condition  of  the  working- 
classes  such  as  was  never  possessed  "by 
the  wiseacres  who  write  so  learnedly  in 
the  great  quarterlies  about  the  relation  of 
labor  to  capital.  To-morrow  he  will  go 
down  the  Bay  to  interview  some  incoming 
foreign  celebrity,  and  next  week  will  find 
him  in  a  distant  city  reporting  a  great 
criminal  trial  which  engrosses  the  atten- 
tion of  the  whole  country.  He  is  work- 
ing hard  and  making  a  fair  living,  and, 
best  of  all,  he  is  making  steady  progress 
every  day  in  the  profession  of  writing. 

It  is  in  the  midst  of  this  healthy,  en- 
grossing, and  instructive  life  that  he 
pauses  to  listen  to  the  admonitory  words 
of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Stuffe : 

84 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

"  Young  man  on  life's  threshold,  seek 
the  companionship  of  good  women.  Go 
into  the  society  of  cultivated  and  thought- 
ful people.  You  will  be  all  the  better  for 
it!" 

Whereupon  the  young  man  arrays  him- 
self in  the  finest  attire  at  his  command 
and  goes  up-town  to  call  on  certain  family 
friends  whom  he  has  not  seen  for  some 
years  past.  Within  a  short  time  he  finds 
himself  a  regular  frequenter  of  receptions, 
kettledrums,  and  evening  parties,  with 
dinners  looming  up  on  the  horizon.  He 
meets  a  number  of  charming  young 
women,  and  cannot  help  noticing  that 
they  prefer  his  society  to  that  of  the  other 
young  men  whom  they  know.  These  other 
young  men  are  richer,  better  dressed,  and, 
in  many  instances,  better  looking  than  our 
young  friend  from  Park  Row,  but  what 
does  all  that  count  for  in  the  face  of  the 
fact  that  he  has  often  been  behind  the 
scenes  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera-house, 

85 


THE  LITER AET  SHOP 

and  is  personally  acquainted  with  Ada 
Rehan  or  Ellen  Terry  ? 

He  thinks  that  Dr.  Stuffe  was  right 
when  he  advised  him  to  go  into  society, 
and  already  he  feels  sure  that  he  is  deriv- 
ing great  benefit  from  it.  But  what  he 
mistakes  for  a  healthful  stimulant  is,  in 
reality,  the  insidious  poison  against  which 
the  Reverend  Stuffe  has  never  a  word 
of  warning  said ;  and,  unless  our  young 
friend  be  strong  enough  to  flee  from  it  in 
time,  he  will  find  his  feet  straying  from 
the  rugged  path  which  leads  to  true  liter- 
ary success,  and  which  he  has  up  to  this 
moment  been  treading  bravely  and  with 
ever-increasing  self-confidence  and  know- 
ledge. 

"  And  so  you're  really  a  literary  man ! 
How  nice  that  must  be !  Do  tell  me  what 
nom  de  plume  you  write  under !  "  some 
lovely  girl  will  say  to  him,  and  then  he 
will  answer  meekly  that  he  does  not  sign 
either  his  name  or  his  nom  de  plume,  be- 
86 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

cause  he  is  working  on  a  daily  paper — if 
he  has  a  mind  as  strong  as  Daniel  Web- 
ster's he  will  say  that  he  is  a  reporter — 
and  then  some  of  the  light  will  fade  out  of 
the  young  girl's  deep-blue  eyes,  and  she 
will  say  "Oh ! "  and  perhaps  ask  him  if  he 
doesn't  think  Mr.  Janvier's  story  about  the 
dead  Philadelphia  cat  the  funniest  thing 
that  he's  seen  in  a  long  while.  Then  she 
will  ask  him  compassionately  why  he  does 
not  write  for  the  magazines  like  that  de- 
lightful Mr.  Inkhorn,  who  sometimes  goes 
down  on  the  Bowery  with  two  detectives, 
and  sits  up  as  late  as  half-past  eleven. 
Has  he  read  Mr.  Inkhorn's  story,  "  Little 
Willie :  A  Tale  of  Mush  and  Milk  "  ?  It's 
perfectly  delightful,  and  shows  such  a 
wonderful  knowledge  of  New  York ! 

At  this  point  I  would  advise  my  young 
friend  from  Park  Row  to  put  cotton  in  his 
ears  or  turn  the  conversation  into  some 
other  channel,  because  if  the  sweet  young 
girl  prattles  on  much  longer  he  will  find 
87 


THE  LITER AEY  SHOP 

that  her  literary  standards  of  good  and 
bad  are  very  different  from  those  of  his 
editor-in-chief,  whom  he  has  been  trying 
so  hard  to  please,  and  of  the  clever,  hard- 
working and  hard-thinking  young  men 
with  whom  he  is  associated  in  both 
work  and  play.  If  she  can  inspire  him 
with  a  desire  to  please  her,  he  will  have 
cause  to  bitterly  regret  the  day  that  he 
first  sought  her  society  in  obedience  to 
the  suggestion  of  Dr.  Stuffe;  for  to  ac- 
complish this  he  must  put  away  the  teach- 
ings of  his  editor-in-chief,  who  has  learned 
four  languages  in  order  that  he  may  un- 
derstand his  own,  and  whose  later  years 
have  been  devoted  to  the  task  of  instilling 
in  the  minds  of  his  subordinates  a  fitting 
reverence  for  the  purity  and  splendor  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue. 

It  is  precious  little  that  the  pure,  refined 

young  girl  cares  about  good  English,  and 

she  would  be  a  rare  one  of  her  kind  if  she 

did  not  prefer  it  splattered  with  hybrid 

88 


THE  LITE  BART  SHOP 

French  because  it  "sounds  better."  She 
has  a  far  higher  regard  for  the  author  who 
signs  his  name  to  "The  Paper-hanger's 
Bride"  in  the  Century,  or  "The  Dish- 
washer's Farewell"  in  the  Ladies'  Home 
Journal,  than  she  has  for  the  reporter  who, 
by  sheer  force  of  humor,  pathos,  and  imag- 
ination, has  raised  some  trivial  city  hap- 
pening to  the  dignity  of  a  column  "  story  " 
which  becomes  a  three  days'  talk  along 
Park  Row. 

That  there  are  women  who  habitually 
judge  literary  matter  strictly  on  its  merits, 
and  without  regard  to  the  quality  of  the 
paper  on  which  it  is  printed,  I  will  not 
deny — I  am  even  willing  to  admit  that 
there  are  women  who  will  lead  trumps  at 
whist — but  I  most  solemnly  affirm  that 
the  average  well-educated,  clever  reading 
woman  of  to-day  believes  in  her  secret 
heart  that  a  magazine  story  possesses  a 
higher  degree  of  merit  than  a  newspaper 
sketch  because  it  appears  in  a  magazine, 
89 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

and  that  the  "  literary  man  "  who  has  suc- 
ceeded in  selling  enough  short  stories  to 
the  monthlies  to  enable  him  to  republish 
them  in  book  form  has  won  for  himself  a 
more  imposing  niche  in  the  temple  of  fame 
than  should  be  accorded  to  the  late  Mr. 
J.  A.  MacGahan,  who  was  nothing  but  a 
newspaper  reporter  to  the  time  of  his 
death. 

A  few  cases  of  Swelled  Head  resulting 
from  the  flattery  of  women  may  be  men- 
tioned here  for  the  benefit  of  my  imagi- 
nary young  friend  from  Park  Row,  to 
whom  they  should  serve  as  so  many  awful 
examples  of  what  may  happen  to  one  who 
deserts  the  narrow  and  rugged  path  of 
honest  literary  endeavor  for  the  easy-go- 
ing drawing-rooms  in  which  "  faking  "  and 
even  literary  and  artistic  theft  are  looked 
upon  with  complacency  and  tolerance. 

About  fifteen  years  ago  sundry  poems, 
essays,  and  short  stories,  bearing  a  signa- 
ture which  is  almost  forgotten  now,  began 
90 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

to  attract  the  attention  of  the  critical,  and 
before  long  their  author  came  to  be  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  most  promising  and 
talented  young  writers  in  the  city.  Un- 
fortunately for  himself,  however,  his  very 
cleverness  and  its  remarkable  precocity 
proved  his  ultimate  ruin.  He  was  a  very 
young  man  when  he  emerged  from  his 
native  commonplace  obscurity  and  crept, 
almost  unaided,  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
great  white  fierce  light  in  whose  rays  the 
most  ordinary  of  folks  become  famous. 

And,  having  reached  the  outer  edge  of 
this  brilliant  disk  of  light,  he  leisurely  sate 
himself  down  to  rest,  firmly  believing  that 
he  was  in  the  very  center  of  it,  and  that 
the  silly  flattery  of  underbred  and  half- 
educated  women,  and  some  ridiculous  puf- 
fery at  the  hands  of  time-serving  reviewers 
and  paragraphers,  were  the  greenest  bays 
of  Parnassus.  He  became  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  himself  and  with  his  work ; 
and  the  Swelled  Head  assumes  no  more 

91 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

virulent  or  insidious  form  than  that.  He 
did  not  become  an  unpleasant,  egotistical 
nuisance,  as  many  people  similarly  af- 
flicted do.  I  cannot  remember  that  he 
talked  very  much  about  himself  or  his 
work ;  he  simply  agreed  with  himself  that 
he  was  the  greatest  writer  of  the  age,  and 
that  he  had  already  achieved  fame  and 
glory  of  the  highest  sort. 

That  was  not  more  than  a  dozen  years 
ago,  and  at  that  time  his  name  was  on 
everybody's  lips  as  the  "  coming  man  "  of 
the  period.  Ah  me !  how  many  of  these 
"  coming  "  men  and  women  have  come  and 
gone  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  great 
white  light  within  my  short  memory ! 

In  the  past  six  years  I  have  not  seen 
anything  from  his  pen  nor  heard  him 
spoken  of  a  dozen  times.  I  saw  him  the 
other  night  on  Third  Avenue,  and  if  the 
light  from  a  huge  sibilant  electric  lamp 
had  not  shone  upon  him  much  more 
vividly  than  the  great  white  light  of  fame 
92 


THE  LITEEART  SHOP 

ever  did,  I  would  never  have  known  him. 
Seedy,  abject,  repulsive,  he  seemed  fitted 
for  no  r61e  in  life  other  than  that  of  an 
"  awful  example  "  to  accompany  one  whose 
profession  it  is  to  go  about  delivering  lec- 
tures on  the  evil  results  of  indulgence  in 
Swelled  Head. 

In  another  case  of  Swelled  Head  which 
has  come  under  my  observation,  the  victim 
is  a  woman — rather  an  unusual  thing,  for 
a  woman's  vanity  is  not,  as  a  rule,  as 
deep-seated  as  a  man's.  This  woman, 
whom  I  will  call  Margaret  Mealy,  and 
whose  real  name  is  well  known  to  thou- 
sands of  magazine  readers,  dwells  in  a 
pleasant  inland  town  and  has  for  a  neigh- 
bor an  old-time  friend  and  fellow-writer 
named  Henry  Kornkrop.  Both  are  grad- 
uates of  the  old  Ledger  school — many  a 
Friday  morning  have  they  sat  side  by  side 
on  the  poets'  bench  in  the  outer  office, 
watching  the  awful  shadow  of  Robert 
Bonner  moving  to  and  fro  behind  the 
93 


TEE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

glass  partition — and  both  have  been  suc- 
cessful, though  in  widely  different  ways. 

Mrs.  Mealy  has  made  the  tastes  of 
mediocre  people  her  life-study,  and,  as  she 
has  never  for  a  single  moment  lost  sight 
of  the  great  literary  principles  which  she 
acquired  during  the  period  of  her  appren- 
ticeship, she  has  continued  to  keep  herself 
in  touch  with  editorial  likes  and  dislikes, 
with  the  result  that  she  is  now  a  regular 
contributor  to  the  leading  magazines,  and 
the  author  of  various  short  stories  and 
serials  of  such  incredible  stupidity  that  I 
often  wonder  what  hypnotic  or  persuasive 
powers  made  it  possible  for  her  to  dispose 
of  them. 

Her  neighbor,  Henry  Kornkrop,  is  a 
literary  worker  of  another  stamp.  He 
goes  to  work  every  morning  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  from  that  hour  until  noon 
the  click  of  his  type- writer  does  not  cease 
for  a  single  instant.  Two  hours  more  in 
the  afternoon  complete  his  day's  stint ;  and 
94 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

as  his  contract  with  his  publishers  calls  for 
neither  punctuation,  paragraphs,  nor  capi- 
tals, he  is  able  to  turn  out  a  stupendous 
quantity  of  fiction  from  one  Christmas  day 
to  another.  He  writes  over  the  name  of 
"  Lady  Gwendoline  Dunrivers,"  and  deals 
exclusively  with  aristocratic  life  and  char- 
acter. Many  a  young  shop-girl  going 
down-town  in  an  early  elevated  train  with 
the  latest  "  Lady  Gwendoline  "  in  her  hand 
has  been  carried  past  Grand  Street  and 
awakened  with  a  start  from  her  dream  of 
Lord  Cecil,  with  his  tawny  mustache  and 
clear-blue  eyes,  to  find  herself  at  the  Bat- 
tery terminus  of  the  road.  There  is  strong 
meat  in  Henry  Kornkrop's  work,  and  his 
publishers  gladly  buy  every  ream  that  he 
turns  out.  In  one  sense  he  leads  an  ideal 
literary  life,  with  no  editors  to  refuse  his 
work  or  alter  it  to  siut  the  tastes  of  their 
readers,  no  vulgar  publicity,  no  adverse 
criticisms  to  wound  his  feelings,  and,  best 
of  all,  no  pecuniary  care ;  for  the  "  Lady 
95 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Gwendoline  "  romances  bring  him  in  not 
less  than  $10,000  a  year,  which  is  proba- 
bly twice  as  much  as  Mrs.  Mealy  makes. 

Of  course  neither  of  these  writers  turns 
out  any  decent  work  the  year  through,  if 
we  are  to  judge  them  by  a  respectable 
literary  standard ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  de- 
termine which  of  the  two  is  the  more  cul- 
pable— Margaret  Mealy,  who  puts  gas-fit- 
ters to  sleep,  or  Henry  Kornkrop,  who 
keeps  dish-washers  awake.  I  fancy,  how- 
ever, that  there  are  few  of  my  readers 
who  will  disagree  with  me  in  my  opinion 
that,  of  the  two,  honest  Henry  Kornkrop 
is  by  far  the  more  successful  and  prosper- 
ous. And  yet  Mrs.  Mealy  made  up  her 
mind  a  few  years  ago  that  she  really  could 
not  afford  to  be  on  such  familiar  terms 
with  the  Kornkrops — not  that  Mrs.  K.  was 
not  the  very  best  of  women,  and  Henry 
the  most  industrious  of  men — but  simply 
because  her  position  before  the  world  as 
a  literary  woman  made  it  necessary  for 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

her  to  be  a  little  particular  about  her  as- 
sociates. 

In  other  words,  the  silly  flattery  of 
young  women  in  search  of  autographs, 
and  of  mendacious  reviewers  who  have 
manuscript  to  dispose  of,  has  been  suf- 
ficient to  upset  the  mental  equilibrium  of 
this  most  excellent  woman  and  leave  her 
a  victim  of  the  Swelled  Head,  pitied  by 
all  who  know  her,  and  by  none  more  than 
by  her  old  associate  of  the  poets'  bench, 
Henry  Kornkrop,  the  modest  and  gifted 
author  of  the  "Lady  Gwendoline"  ro- 
mances. 

One  more  instance  of  Swelled  Head  and 
I  am  done.  The  case  to  which  I  refer  is 
that  of  Mr.  E.  F.  Benson,  the  author  of 
Dodo,  who  has,  I  am  credibly  informed, 
been  so  overwhelmed  with  attentions  from 
women  of  rank  and  fashion  that  his  eve- 
nings are  now  fully  occupied  with  social 
functions  and  he  is  unable  to  attend  night- 
school.  This  is  to  be  regretted,  for  Mr. 
97 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Benson  is  by  no  means  devoid  of  clever- 
ness, and  I  am  sure  that  in  an  institution 
of  learning  of  the  kind  that  I  have  named 
he  would  soon  master  such  mysteries  of 
syntax  as  the  subjunctive  mood,  and  at 
the  same  time  vastly  improve  his  style  by 
constant  study  of  such  masterpieces  of 
simple,  direct  English  as,  "Ho!  the  ox 
does  go,"  and  "  Lo !  I  do  go  up." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LITERATURE — PAWED  AND  UNPAWED  ; 
AND  THE  CROWN-PRINCE  THEREOF. 

"  SEE  here !  "  cried  a  friend  of  mine  the 
other  day,  "you're  always  crying  down 
the  magazines,  but  I'll  bet  you  couldn't 
write  a  magazine  story  to  save  your 
neck ! " 

My  dear  boy,  I  never  said  I  could  write 
one — in  fact,  I  am  very  sure  I  couldn't; 
it's  all  I  can  do  to  read  them  after  the 
other  people  have  written  them.  That  is 
an  infirmity  which  has,  I  am  sure,  inter- 
fered seriously  with  my  labors  as  a  critic 
— this  inability  to  wade  through  every- 
thing that  the  magazine  editors  are  kind 
enough  to  set  before  us.  But  I  contrive 
99 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

to  keep  in  touch  with  contemporary  fiction 
by  frequenting  the  Mercantile  Library, 
where  I  can  not  only  read  and  write  un- 
disturbed, but  also  take  note  of  what 
others  are  reading  and  writing.  And  to- 
ward the  close  of  each  month  I  make  it  a 
point  to  arrive  very  early  of  a  morning 
and  take  a  superficial  glance  at  the  pages 
of  the  different  periodicals,  in  order  to 
gain  an  idea  of  the  relative  popularity  of 
each  one,  and  of  the  stories  which  they 
contain.  When  I  find  a  story  that  is 
smeared  with  the  grime  of  innumerable 
hands,  or  a  magazine  that  has  been 
torn  almost  to  shreds  by  scores  of  eager 
readers,  I  retire  to  a  corner  and  try  to  find 
out  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble. 

But  this  labor-saving  system,  excellent 
as  it  is  in  many  ways,  has  its  defects  j  and 
so  it  happened  that  I  came  very  near 
missing  one  of  the  most  charming  stories 
that  I  have  ever  found  in  the  pages  of  a 
magazine. 

100 


THE  LITER  AST  SHOP 

One  bleak  autumnal  morning  not  many 
years  ago  I  paid  one  of  my  periodical 
early  visits  to  the  library,  and  had  just 
finished  my  examination  of  the  literary 
market  when  my  eye  happened  to  fall  on 
the  name  of  Francois  Coppee  printed  in 
about  the  last  place  in  the  world  that  one 
would  be  apt  to  look  for  it — namely,  in 
the  table  of  contents  of  Harper's  Magazine. 
It  was  signed  to  a  story  called  "The 
Rivals,"  and  although  the  pages  of  that 
story  were  neither  torn  by  nervous  femi- 
nine claws  nor  blackened  by  grimy  hands 
I  began  to  read  it,  and  as  I  read  New  York 
slipped  away  from  me,  the  wheezing  of 
the  asthmatic  patrons  of  the  library  be- 
came inaudible  to  me,  for  I  was  in  Paris 
with  the  young  poet  and  his  two  loves. 
When  I  had  finished  the  book  I  looked  up 
and  saw  that  I  was  still  in  the  library,  for 
there  were  the  shelves  full  of  what  are 
termed  the  "leading  periodicals  of  the 
day,"  and  two  elderly  ladies  were  racing 
101 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

across  the  room  for  the  new  number  of 
Life. 

And  then  in  the  fullness  of  my  heart  I 
gave  thanks  to  the  great  firm  of  publishers 
that  had  dared  to  violate  all  the  sacred 
traditions  that  have  been  handed  down 
from  the  Bonnerian  to  the  Johnsonian 
age  of  letters  and  print  a  story  that  could 
make  me  forget  for  half  an  hour  that  I 
had  a  thousand  words  of  "  humorous  mat- 
ter "  to  write  before  twelve  o'clock. 

It  was  sad  to  come  back  from  the  cou- 
lisses of  the  Vaudeville  and  find  myself 
directly  opposite  the  shelf  containing  the 
Chautauquan  Magazine  and  within  ear- 
shot of  the  rustling  of  Harper's  Bazar; 
but  I  turned  to  my  work  in  a  better  spirit 
because  of  M.  Coppe"e  and  the  Harpers, 
and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  the 
quality  of  the  "  humorous  matter  "  which 
I  constructed  that  afternoon  was  superior 
in  fibre  and  durability  to  the  ordinary 
products  of  my  hands.  I  know  that  a 
102 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

dealer  to  whom  I  occasionally  brought  a 
basketful  of  my  wares  gave  me  an  order 
the  very  next  day  to  serve  him  once  a 
week  regularly  thereafter,  and  as  he  has 
been  a  steady  and  prompt-paying  cus- 
tomer ever  since  I  have  special  cause  to 
feel  grateful  to  the  famous  house  of  Har- 
per for  the  literary  stimulus  which  the 
story  gave  me. 

I  have  already  alluded  to  the  fact  that 
the  pages  on  which  "The  Rivals"  was 
printed  were  not  torn  and  discolored  like 
those  containing  other  much-read  and 
widely  discussed  romances.  It  was  this 
circumstance  which  led  me  to  reflect  on 
the  difficulties  and  discouragement  which 
confront  the  editor  whose  ambition  it  is 
to  give  his  subscribers  fiction  of  the  very 
best  literary  quality.  In  this  instance  the 
experiment  had  been  fairly  tried  and  yet 
at  the  end  of  the  month  the  virgin  purity 
of  these  pages  was,  to  me  at  least,  sadly 
significant  of  the  fact  that  Coppee's  de- 
103 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

lightful  work  had  not  met  with  the  appre- 
ciation which  it  deserved. 

I  did  not,  of  course,  lose  sight  of  the  fact 
that  the  story  appealed  almost  exclusively 
to  a  class  of  people  who  keep  their  fin- 
gers clean  (and  have  cleanly  minds  also)? 
and  that  it  was,  therefore,  not  improb- 
able that  it  had  found  more  readers  than 
the  condition  of  its  pages  would  indicate ; 
but  nevertheless  I  was  forced  to  the  re- 
luctant admission  that  from  a  commercial 
point  of  view  the  publication  of  "The 
Rivals  "  had  proved  a  failure ;  nor  has  the 
opinion  which  I  formed  then  been  upset 
by  later  observation  and  knowledge.  All 
of  which  served  to  heighten  my  admira- 
tion for  the  enlightened  policy  which  gave 
this  unusual  bit  of  fiction  to  the  American 
public. 

I  said  something  of  this  sort  to  a  friend 
of  mine,  who,  although  rather  given  to 
fault-finding,  had  to  admit  that  the  Har- 
pers had  done  a  praiseworthy  and  coura- 
104 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

geous  thing  in  printing  M.  Coppee's  story. 
"  Yes,"  said  my  friend,  rather  gmdgingly, 
"  it  was  a  big  tiling  of  Alden  to  buy  that 
story ;  but  if  that  story  had  been  offered 
to  them  by  an  American  they  wouldn't 
have  touched  it  with  a  forty-foot  pole." 

My  friend  was  quite  right,  for  if  that 
story,  or  one  like  it,  were  offered  in  the 
literary  market  by  an  American  writer, 
the  editor  to  whom  it  was  offered  would 
know  at  once  that  it  had  been  stolen,  and 
would  be  perfectly  justified  in  locking  his 
office  door  and  calling  for  the  police. 
Coppee  has  simply  told  the  story  of  a 
young  poet  beloved  of  two  women,  a  shop- 
girl and  an  actress;  and  he  has  told  it 
truthfully  as  well  as  artistically — so  truth- 
fully, in  fact,  that  I  shudder  when  I  think 
of  the  number  of  people  of  the  "  Christian 
Endeavor"  type  who  must  have  with- 
drawn their  names  from  the  Monthly's 
subscription-list  because  of  it.  If  I  could 
be  assured  that  the  number  of  these 

105 


THE  LITER ART  SHOP 

wretched  Philistines  were  far  exceeded 
by  that  of  the  intelligent  men  and  women 
who  added  their  names  because  of  this 
important  step  in  the  direction  of  true  art, 
I  would  feel  far  more  confident  than  I  do 
now  of  a  bright  near  future  for  American 
letters. 

The  very  next  day  after  that  on  which 
I  read  "  The  Rivals "  I  was  aroused  by  a 
sudden  agitation  which  spread  through 
the  reading-room  of  the  quiet  library  in 
which  I  was  at  work.  The  table  on  which 
my  books  and  papers  were  spread  shook 
so  that  the  thought  of  a  possible  earth- 
quake flashed  across  my  startled  mind, 
and  I  looked  up  in  time  to  see  the  young 
woman  opposite  to  me  drop  the  tattered 
remnants  of  Harper's  Bazar,  from  which 
she  had  just  deciphered  an  intricate  pat- 
tern, rush  across  the  room,  and  pounce 
upon  a  periodical  which  had  just  been 
placed  on  its  shelf  by  the  librarian.  If 
she  had  been  a  second  later  the  three  other 
106 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

women  who  approached  at  the  same  mo- 
ment from  three  different  parts  of  the 
room  would  have  fought  for  this  paper 
like  ravening  wolves. 

The  Christmas  number  of  the  Ladies3 
Some  Journal  had  arrived. 

I  do  not  know  of  any  magazine  which 
so  truthfully  reflects  the  literary  tendency 
of  the  age  as  this  extraordinary  Philadel- 
phia publication,  and  I  am  not  surprised 
to  learn,  as  I  have  on  undisputed  author- 
ity, that  it  has  a  larger  circulation  than 
any  other  journal  of  its  class  in  this  coun- 
try. It  is  conducted  by  that  gifted  liter- 
ary exploiter  and  brilliant  romancer,  Mr. 
E.  "W.  Bok,  the  legitimate  successor  to  Mr. 
Johnson,  and  the  present  crown-prince  of 
American  letters. 

I  took  the  trouble  to  examine  the  num- 
ber which  the  librarian  had  removed,  and 
found  that  it  had  been  pawed  perfectly 
black,  while  many  of  its  pages  were  torn 
and  frayed  in  a  way  that  indicated  that 

107 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

they  had  found  a  host  of  eager  readers. 
Here  was  pawed  literature  with  a  ven- 
geance, and  so,  after  leaving  the  library 
that  afternoon,  I  purchased  a  copy  of  the 
Christmas  number,  thrust  it  under  my 
coat,  and  skulked  home. 

All  that  evening  until  well  into  the 
early  hours  of  the  new  day,  I  sat  with  that 
marvelous  literary  production  before  me, 
eagerly  devouring  every  line  of  its  con- 
tents, and  honestly  admiring  the  number 
of  high-priced  advertisements  which  met 
my  eye,  and  the  high  literary  quality  of 
many  of  them.  When  I  finally  pushed 
the  Christmas  number  away  and  rose 
from  my  table  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  en- 
thusiasm tempered  with  awe  for  the  many- 
sided  genius  that  controlled  and  had  de- 
vised this  widely  circulated  and  incom- 
parable journal.  I  must  confess,  also,  to 
a  feeling  of  admiration  tinged  with  envy 
that  took  possession  of  my  soul  as  I  read 
the  serials  to  which  were  affixed  the  names 
108 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

of  some  of  the  most  distinguished  writers 
in  America.  I  have  spoken  in  an  earlier 
chapter  of  the  "  good  bad  stuff"  produced 
by  my  friend  the  poet,  and  in  which  he 
took  such  honest  pride ;  and  I  would  like 
nothing  better  than  to  ask  him  his  opinion 
of  the  "  bad  bad  stuff  "  which  the  acknow- 
ledged leaders  of  our  national  school  of 
letters  had  unblushingly  contributed,  and 
for  which,  as  I  have  since  learned,  they 
were  paid  wages  that  were  commensurate 
with  their  shame.  Now  the  author  who 
writes  a  good  story  is  entitled  to  his  just 
mead  of  praise,  but  what  shall  we  say  of 
the  author  who  succeeds  in  selling  for  a 
large  sum  the  serial  that  he  wrote  during 
his  sophomore  year  in  college?  I  say, 
and  I  am  sure  my  friend  the  practical 
poet  will  agree  with  me,  that  he  ought  to 
be  the  president  of  an  industrial  life-insur- 
ance company. 

As  for  the  literary  huckster  who  suc- 
ceeds in  distending  the  circulation  of  an 
109 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

almost  moribund  weekly  journal  to  un- 
heard-of limits  by  the  infusion  of  this  and 
other  equally  bad  bad  stuff,  I  am  at  a  loss 
for  terms  that  will  do  fitting  tribute  to 
his  ability,  and  must  leave  that  duty  for 
some  more  comprehensive  reviewer  of  a 
future  generation  who  will  do  full  justice 
to  the  genius  of  our  great  contemporary 
in  an  exhaustive  treatise  on  English 
Literature  from  Chaucer  to  Bolt. 

Although  as  yet  only  the  heir  apparent 
to  the  crown  of  letters,  Mr.  Bok  has  ac- 
quired an  undeniable  and  far-reaching  in- 
fluence in  the  realm  which  he  will  one  day 
be  called  upon  to  govern,  and  has  strongly 
impressed  his  individuality  on  contem-- 
poraneous  literature,  in  which  respect  his 
position  is  not  unlike  that  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales  in  England.  Among  the  more 
noteworthy  of  the  literary  products  which 
have  added  lustre  to  the  period  of  his 
minority  may  be  mentioned  "Heart-to- 
Heart  Talks  about  Pillow-shams  "  j  "  Why 
no 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

My  Father  Loved  Muffins/'  by  Mamie 
Dickens ;  "  Where  the  Tidies  Blow  " ;  "  The 
Needs  of  a  Canary/'  by  the  Rev.  Elijah 
Gas ;  and  "  How  I  Blow  My  Nose/'  by  the 
Countess  of  Aberdeen.  Mr.  Bok  has  also 
made  a  strong  bid  for  the  favor  of  the  sex 
which  is  always  gentle  and  fair  by  his 
vigorous  championship  of  what  is  termed 
an  "evening  musicale,"  an  abomination 
which  still  flourishes  in  spite  of  the  per- 
sistent and  systematic  efforts  of  strong, 
brave  men  to  suppress  it.  A  timely  Christ- 
mas article  on  the  subject,  published  about 
a  year  ago,  was  found  to  be  almost  illegi- 
ble before  it  had  been  on  the  Mercantile 
Library  shelves  a  fortnight.  This  article 
is  by  the  wife  of  an  eminent  specialist  in 
nervous  diseases — it  maybe  that  she  has 
an  eye  on  her  husband's  practice — and  it 
contains  elaborate  instructions  as  to  the 
best  way  of  inflicting  the  evening  musicale 
on  peaceful  communities.  How  to  entrap 
the  guests,  what  indigestibles  to  serve, 
ill 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

how  to  prevent  the  men  from  escaping 
when  the  bass  viol  begins  its  deadly  work, 
and  how  to  make  them  believe  they  have 
had  a  pleasant  time,  are  among  the  minu- 
tiae treated  in  this  invaluable  essay. 

It  is  by  sheer  force  of  tireless  industry 
and  a  complete  mastery  of  every  detail  of 
his  prodigious  literary  enterprise  that  Mr. 
Bok  has  placed  himself  in  the  proud  posi- 
tion which  he  occupies  to-day.  He  is  the 
acknowledged  authority  on  such  subjects 
as  the  bringing  up  of  young  girls,  the  care 
of  infants,  the  cleansing  of  flannel  gar- 
ments, and  the  crocheting  of  door-mats. 
In  the  gentle  art  of  tatting  he  has  no  su- 
perior, and  has  long  held  the  medal  as  the 
champion  light-weight  tatter  of  America. 
In  his  leisure  moments  he  "chats  with 
Mrs.  Burnett,"  "spends  evenings  with 
Mark  Twain,"  and  interviews  the  clever 
progeny  of  distinguished  men  in  the  in- 
terest of  his  widely  circulated  monthly. 

The  homely  qualities  to  which  I  have 
112 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

alluded  in  the  preceding  paragraph  have 
made  Mr.  Bok  our  crown-prince,  but  he 
will  live  in  history  as  the  discoverer  of  a 
new  force  in  literary  mechanics — a  force 
which  may,  with  justice,  be  compared  to 
the  sound-waves  which  have  been  the 
mainspring  of  Mr.  Edison's  inventions, 
and  one  which  is  destined  to  produce 
results  so  far-reaching  and  important  that 
the  most  acute  literary  observer  is  utterly 
unable  to  make  any  estimate  of  them. 

The  use  of  the  names  of  distinguished 
men  and  women  to  lend  interest  to  worth- 
less or  uninteresting  articles  on  topics  of 
current  interest  dates  back  to  the  most 
remote  period  of  the  world's  history,  but 
it  was  Mr.  Bok  who  discovered,  during  a 
temporary  depression  in  the  celebrity 
market,  that  a  vast  horde  of  their  rela- 
tions were  available  for  literary  purposes, 
and  that  there  was  not  much  greater 
"pull"  in  the  name  of  a  citizen  who  had 
won  distinction  in  commerce,  art,  litera- 
113 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

ture,  in  the  pulpit  or  on  the  bench,  than 
there  was  in  those  of  his  wife,  his  aunt, 
his  sister,  and  his  children  even  unto  the 
third  and  fourth  generation. 

It  was  this  discovery  that  led  to  the 
publication  of  the  popular  and  apparently 
endless  series  of  essays  bearing  such  ti- 
tles as  "  The  Wives  of  Famous  Pastors," 
"  Bright  Daughters  of  Well-known  Men," 
"  Proud  Uncles  of  Promising  Young  Story- 
writers,"  and  "Invalid  Aunts  of  Daring 
Athletes."  The  masterpiece  of  these  bio- 
graphical batches  was  the  one  bearing  the 
general  head  of  "  Faces  We  Seldom  See," 
and  it  was  this  one  which  established  be- 
yond all  question  or  doubt  the  permanent 
worth  and  importance  of  Mr.  Bok's  dis- 
covery. The  faces  of  those  whom  we 
often  see  have  been  described  in  the  pub- 
lic prints  from  time  immemorial,  but  it 
was  the  editor  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Jour- 
nal who  discovered  the  great  commercial 
value  that  lurked  in  the  faces  of  men  and 
114 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

women  who  were  absolutely  unknown 
outside  their  own  limited  circles  of 
friends. 

Then  the  relations  of  the  celebrities  be- 
came writers  on  their  own  account,  and 
straightway  the  pages  of  Mr.  Bok's  in- 
valuable magazine  glistened  with  "How 
My  Wife's  Great-uncle  Wrote  '  Rip  Van 
Winkle/"  by  Peter  Pointdexter;  "My 
Childhood  in  the  White  House/'  by  Ruth 
McKee ;  "  How  Much  Money  My  Uncle  is 
Worth,"  by  Cornelius  Waldorf  Astorbilt  ; 
and  "  Recollections  of  R.  B.  Hayes,"  by 
his  ox  and  his  ass. 

Even  a  well-trained  mind  becomes 
stunned  and  bewildered  in  an  attempt  to 
estimate  the  extent  to  which  this  newly 
discovered  force  can  be  carried.  The  imag- 
ination can  no  more  grasp  it  than  it  can 
grasp  the  idea  of  either  space  or  eternity, 
and  it  is  my  firm  belief  that  under  the  im- 
petus already  acquired  in  the  Ladies'  Home 
Journal  the  hoofs  of  the  relations  of  celeb- 

115 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

rities  will  go  clattering  down  through  the 
literature  of  centuries  as  yet  unborn. 

In  the  mind  of  a  celebrity  the  prospect 
is  one  calculated  to  rob  the  grave  of  half 
its  repose ;  nevertheless  it  must  be  a  com- 
fort to  pass  away  in  the  great  white  light 
of  fame,  cheered  by  the  thought  that  the 
stricken  wife,  the  orphaned  children,  and 
the  consumptive  aunt  are  left  with  a  per- 
petual source  of  income  at  their  fingers' 
ends. 

A  well-thumbed  paragraph  in  a  recent 
number  of  the  Journal  announces  that 
Mr.  Bok  has  trampled  upon  his  diffident, 
sensitive  nature  to  the  extent  of  permit- 
ting "what  he  considers  a  very  satisfac- 
tory portrait "  of  himself  to  be  offered  to 
his  admirers  at  the  low  price  of  a  quarter 
of  a  dollar  apiece.  This  offer,  which  bears 
the  significant  heading  "The  Girl  Who 
Loves  Art,"  is  made  with  the  express  stip- 
ulation that  intending  purchasers  shall 
not  deepen  the  blush  on  the  gifted  editor's 
116 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

cheek  by  sending  their  orders  direct  to 
the  Home  Journal  office,  but  shall  address 
them  direct  to  the  photographer,  Mr.  C.  M. 
Gilbert,  of  926  Chestnut  Street,  Phila- 
delphia. 

I  desire  to  add  that  I  reprint  this  gener- 
ous proposition  of  my  own  free  will  and 
without  either  solicitation  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Bok  or  hope  of  reward  from  the  pho- 
tographer whose  precious  privilege  it  has 
been  to  transmit  to  the  cabinet-sized  card- 
board the  likeness  of  America's  crown- 
prince.  I  would  not  do  this  for  Mr.  Gil- 
der, for  Mr.  Scribner,  or  for  any  of  the 
Harpers.  I  would  do  it  only  for  Mr. 
E.  W.  Bok. 


117 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CERTAIN   THINGS  WHICH  A  CONSCIENTIOUS 

LITERARY  WORKER  MAY  FIND  IN  THE 

CITY  OF  NEW  YORK. 

LET  us  return  to  my  imaginary  young 
friend  from  Park  Row,  to  whom  I  have 
referred  in  a  previous  chapter,  and  let  us 
picture  him  at  a  small  social  gathering  in 
the  drawing-room  of  some  clever  and 
charming  woman  of  fashion,  of  the  kind 
that  assiduously  cultivate  the  society  of 
men  of  art  and  letters  because  they  like 
to  hear  the  gossip  of  literature,  the  stage, 
and  the  studio  "  at  first  hand,"  if  I  may 
use  the  term. 

Our  young  friend  is  modest  and  well- 
bred,  and,  moreover,  carries  with  him  a 

118 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

certain  breezy  and  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  men  and  events  of  the  day  which 
fairly  entitles  him  to  a  place  of  his  own 
in  what  ought  to  be  the  most  enjoyable 
of  all  circles  of  society.  He  is  delighted 
with  the  young  women  whom  he  meets 
here  in  what  his  hostess  fondly  hopes  will 
become  a  salon — how  many  New  York 
women  have  had  a  similar  ambition!  — 
and  yet  he  cannot  understand  why  they 
pay  so  much  attention  to  certain  gentle- 
men who  are  present  also,  and  whom  he 
knows  to  be  of  very  small  account  so  far 
as  the  arts  and  letters  are  concerned. 

Young  Daubleigh  is  there,  the  centre 
of  a  breathless  group,  to  whom  he  is  be- 
wailing the  utter  lack  of  all  true  art  sense 
on  the  part  of  Americans,  and  the  hide- 
ousness  of  New  York,  which,  he  declares, 
offers  absolutely  nothing  to  a  true  artist. 
Daubleigh  never  goes  into  society  with- 
out a  pocketful  of  art  phrases,  such  as 
"  au  premier  coup,"  "  he  has  found  his  true 

119 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

m&ier,"  "the  divine  art  of  Velasquez," 
and  others  of  the  same  sort.  Of  course 
he  is  a  great  social  favorite,  and  of  course 
he  has  very  high  ideals  of  his  art,  and  is 
apt  to  refer  slightingly  to  artists  who 
know  how  to  draw  as  "mere  illustra- 
tors"— a  form  of  speech  which  does  not 
somehow  endear  him  to  those  who  know 
that  he  ought  to  be  at  Cooper  Union 
learning  the  rudiments  of  his  calling. 

Another  guest,  and  a  favorite  one  too, 
is  the  strangely  gifted  romancer  who 
poses  as  a  literary  man  because  he  has 
sold  two  sonnets  and  a  short  story  to  one 
of  the  magazines,  and  of  whom  it  is  re- 
lated in  an  awestruck  whisper  that  he 
once  went  through  Mulberry  Bend,  dis- 
guised with  green  side-whiskers  and  un- 
der the  protection  of  a  Central  Office  de- 
tective— all  this  in  search  of  what  he  calls 
"local  color." 

Our  young  friend  from  Park  Row  spent 
two  hours  in  Mulberry  Bend  the  night 
120 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

before  in  search  of  a  "story"  for  his 
paper,  and  has  the  hardihood  to  say  so  to 
the  charming  young  girl  beside  him,  add- 
ing that  he  felt  as  safe  as  if  he  had  been 
at  an  organ  recital.  The  next  moment 
he  realizes  that  he  has  made  a  mistake  in 
trying  to  destroy  any  of  the  glamour  that 
shines  from  the  green  whiskers  and  the 
detective.  The  conversation  now  turns 
upon  the  availability  of  New  York  as  a 
field  for  the  writer  of  fiction,  and  is  ably 
sustained  by  a  young  gentleman  who  is 
known  to  be  "literary,"  although  no  one 
can  say  definitely  what  he  has  written. 
However,  he  is  literary  enough  to  have  a 
place  in  this  salon,  and  to  take  a  leading 
part  in  the  discussions  which  go  on  there. 
He  is  very  decided  in  his  views  regarding 
literature,  as  distinguished  from  what  he 
calls  "mere  newspaper  scribbling,"  and 
does  not  scruple  to  express  his  contempt 
for  anything  that  is  not  printed  either  in 
a  magazine  or  "  between  covers,"  as  he 

121 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

puts  it  in  his  careless,  professional  fashion. 
Like  many  a  one  of  the  gentler  sex,  he 
has  been  dazzled  in  early  life  by  the  glare 
from  the  supercalendered  paper.  It  is 
now  nearly  two  years  since  he  first  began 
to  be  a  literary  man,  and  he  regards  the 
progress  that  he  has  made  during  that 
period  as  extremely  gratifying,  for  he 
has  put  himself  on  an  excellent  footing  in 
three  or  four  of  the  most  delightful  liter- 
ary and  artistic  salons  in  the  city,  and 
confidently  expects  to  have  a  story  pub- 
lished in  one  of  the  leading  monthlies  by 
midsummer.  And  that  story  will  be  pub- 
lished, as  I  happen  to  know,  as  soon  as 
he  has  made  certain  alterations  suggested 
by  the  editor — taken  out  the  strong  scene 
between  the  banker's  daughter  and  the 
poor  but  impulsive  suitor,  and  modified 
various  sentences  which  in  their  present 
form  might  wound  the  susceptibilities  of 
a  large  contingent  of  subscribers. 

This  promising  young  writer  has  been 
122 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

such  a  constant  visitor  to  magazine  offices 
since  lie  first  embarked  on  a  literary 
career,  and  has  associated  so  much  with 
the  junior  members  of  the  editorial  staffs 
(or  staves  ?),  that  his  opinions  are  a  reflex 
of  theirs,  and  he  is  now  thoroughly  in 
accord  with  those  with  whom  he  is  anx- 
ious to  do  business. 

Therefore  when  he  remarks,  in  that 
superior  manner  which  insures  for  him 
the  instant  credulity  of  the  women  in  the 
company,  that  it  is  not  worth  an  author's 
while  to  study  the  social  structure  of  New 
York,  he  is  right  from  his  own  point  of 
view,  and  it  ill  becomes  our  young  friend 
from  Park  Row  to  despise  him  for  it. 
And  when  he  goes  on  to  say  that  our  be- 
loved city  has  no  individuality  of  its  own, 
and  is  permeated  through  and  through 
with  the  awful  flavor  of  commerce,  while 
its  society  is  nothing  but  a  plutocracy,  I 
would  advise  my  young  friend  of  the  city 
department  to  draw  him  out  and  make 
123 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

careful  notes  of  what  he  says  about  life 
and  literature. 

This  young  man  of  letters  is  merely 
echoing  the  opinions  of  those  at  whose 
feet  he  has  sat,  humbly  and  reverently 
acknowledging  their  literary  supremacy, 
and  fondly  hoping  that  they  will  purchase 
his  manuscript.  He  knows  that  Johnson 
does  not  like  low  life,  just  as  Jack  Moran 
knew  that  Bonner  would  not  tolerate  sec- 
ond marriages  or  fast  horses ;  and  so  far 
as  his  own  literary  ambitions  are  con- 
cerned, a  thorough  knowledge  of  New 
York  would  prove  about  as  useful  to  him 
as  a  familiarity  with  the  customs  and  be- 
liefs of  the  Mormons  or  the  names  of  the 
Derby  winners  would  have  been  to  the 
old-time  Ledger  poets. 

But  the  young  reporter,  who  hears  him 
with  feelings  of  either  amusement  or  con- 
tempt or  indignation,  as  the  case  may  be, 
has  already  seen  enough  of  New  York — 
it  may  be  that  he  is  able  to  compare  it 
124 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

with  foreign  capitals — to  know  that  there 
is  an  abundance  of  material  within  its 
limits  which  native  writers  of  fiction  have 
not  only  left  untouched,  but  of  whose 
very  existence  most  of  them  are  abso- 
lutely unaware.  But  it  would  be  useless 
for  him  to  say  so  in  this  company,  for  he 
who  has  just  spoken  so  decisively  is  a 
"  literary  man,"  whose  work  will  one  day 
be  printed  on  the  finest  quality  of  paper 
and  perhaps  adorned  with  beautiful  pic- 
tures. And  besides,  do  not  all  the  nice 
people  li ve  north  of  Washington  Square  ? 

Ah !  those  nice  people  and  that  super- 
calendered  paper — what  an  influence 
they  exert  in  our  literary  Vanity  Fair ! 

Perhaps  one  of  the  young  literary  men 
will  go  on  to  say,  in  proof  of  his  theory 
about  the  literary  poverty  of  New  York, 
that  the  magazines  have  already  published 
a  great  many  articles  and  stories  about 
the  Boweiy  and  the  east  side,  and  have 
in  fact  quite  covered  the  field  without 
125 


THE  LITEEABT  SHOP 

enriching  the  literature  of  the  day  to  any 
very  noticeable  degree.  All  of  which  is 
perfectly  true,  but  the  results  might  have 
been  different  had  the  work  been  in- 
trusted in  each  case  to  a  writer  who  was 
familiar  with  the  subject  instead  of  to  one 
whose  only  qualification  was  that  he  had 
mastered  the  art  of  writing  matter  suita- 
ble for  magazines — or,  in  other  words, 
"literature."  An  exception  to  this  nde? 
and  a  notable  one  too,  was  made  in  the 
case  of  Jacob  A.  Riis,  who  wrote  some 
articles  for  Scribner's  Magazine  a  few  years 
ago  on  the  poor  of  New  York,  and  who  is 
known  as  the  author  of  How  the  Other 
Half  Lives  and  The  Children  of  the  Poor. 
Mr.  Riis  knows  his  subject  thoroughly — 
he  has  been  a  police  reporter  for  years — 
and  his  contributions  are  valuable  be- 
cause of  the  accuracy  of  the  information 
which  they  contain,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  of  the  work  of  some  of  the 
wiseacres  and  gifted  story-writers  who 
126 


seem  to  stand  so  well  in  the  estimation  of 
the  magazine  managers. 

But,  fortunately  enough,  the  truth  is 
mighty,  and  must,  in  the  long  run,  pre- 
vail, in  literature  as  in  other  forms  of  art ; 
and  the  enduring  novel  of  New  York  will 
be  written,  not  by  the  man  who,  knowing 
his  audience  of  editors  rather  than  his 
subject,  is  content  with  a  thin  coating  of 
that  literary  varnish  known  as  "local 
color,"  but  by  this  very  young  man  from 
Park  Row  or  Herald  Square,  to  whom  I 
take  the  liberty  of  addressing  a  few  words 
of  encouragement  and  advice.  When 
this  young  man  sits  down  to  write  that 
novel,  it  will  be  because  he  is  so  full  of 
his  subject,  so  thoroughly  in  sympathy 
with  his  characters — no  matter  whether 
he  takes  them  from  an  opium- joint  in 
Mott  Street  or  a  ball  at  Delmonico's — 
and  so  familiar  with  the  various  influences 
which  have  shaped  their  destinies,  that  he 
will  set  about  his  task  with  the  firm  con- 
127 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

viction  that  he  has  a  story  to  tell  to  the 
world. 

In  that  novel  the  "local  color"  will  be 
found  in  the  blood  and  bones :  it  will  not 
be  smeared  over  the  outside  surface  with 
a  flannel  rag.  And  men  and  women  will 
read  the  story  and  talk  about  it  and  think 
about  it,  just  as  they  are  reading  and 
talking  and  thinking  about  "Trilby" 
now. 

Did  you  ever  hear  any  one  talk  about 
Mr.  Du  Maurier's  "  local  color  "  ?  I  never 
did. 

But  it  was  for  the  best  of  reasons  that 
the  barbed-wire  fence  was  stretched  across 
the  city  just  below  Cooper  Union,  al- 
though it  shut  out  from  view  a  quarter  of 
the  town  in  which  may  be  found  a  greater 
and  more  interesting  variety  of  human 
life  and  customs  than  in  any  other  region 
that  I  know  of.  Of  course  this  literary 
quarantine  was  not  effected  for  the  bene- 
fit of  men  and  women  of  clean,  intelli- 

128 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

gent,  cultivated  minds,  but  to  avoid  giv- 
ing offense  to  the  half-educated  and  quar- 
ter-bred folks  whose  dislike  for  what  they 
consider  "low"  and  "vulgar"  is  only 
equaled  by  their  admiration  of  all  that  is 
"  genteel "  and  their  impassioned  interest 
in  the  doings  of  "  carriage  company." 

I  have  sometimes  accompanied  parties 
of  sight-seers  through  what  was  to  them 
an  entirely  unknown  territory,  south  of 
the  barbed- wire  fence,  and  I  have  noticed 
in  almost  every  instance  that  it  was  only 
the  men  and  women  of  a  high  social  and 
intellectual  grade  who  showed  any  true 
interest  in,  or  appreciation  of,  what  they 
saw  there.  There  have  been  others  in 
these  little  expeditions  who  looked  to  me 
as  if  they  stood  in  perpetual  fear  of  run- 
ning across  some  of  their  own  relations, 
and  one  of  these  once  gravely  assured  me 
that  Hester  Street  was  not  at  all  "  nice." 

Chinatown  is  to  me  a  singularly  at- 
tractive spot,  because  of  its  vivid  colors, 

129 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

its  theatre,  joss-house,  restaurants,  and 
opium- joints — those  mysterious  dens  in 
which  the  Occident  and  Orient  are  brought 
into  the  closest  companionship,  while  the 
fumes  of  the  burning  "dope"  cloy  the 
senses,  and  outcasts  from  every  clime — 
the  Chinese  highbinder  jostling  against 
the  Broadway  confidence  man — smoke 
and  drink  side  by  side,  talking  the  while 
with  a  looseness  of  tongue  that  would  be 
impossible  under  any  influence  other  than 
that  of  opium.  Mr.  William  Norr,  a  New 
York  reporter,  has  told  us  a  great  many 
interesting  and  curious  things  about  the 
human  types — Caucasian  as  well  as  Mon- 
golian— to  be  found  in  this  quarter,  and 
his  book,  Stories  from  Chinatown,  possesses 
the  rare  merit  of  being  absolutely  true  in 
color,  fact,  and  detail. 

But  there  is  something  in  this  alien 

settlement  that  seems  to  me  to  possess  a 

greater  interest,  a  deeper  significance,  than 

the  garish  lights  of  the  colored  lanterns 

130 


THE  L1TEEAEY  SHOP 

or  the  pungent  smoke  of  the  poppy-seed, 
and  that  is  the  new  hybrid  race  that  is 
growing  to  maturity  in  its  streets  and 
tenements.  There  are  scores  of  these  lit- 
tle half-breeds  to  be  seen  there,  and  one 
of  them  has  just  come  prominently  before 
the  American  public  in  the  person  of  Mr. 
George  Appo,  the  son  of  a  Chinese  mur- 
derer and  an  Irishwoman,  and  himself  a 
pickpocket,  green-goods  operator,  as  well 
as  one  of  the  most  entertaining  and  in- 
structive of  all  the  witnesses  examined 
before  the  Lexow  Committee. 

The  Chinese  and  Italians  rub  elbows  in 
this  corner  of  the  town,  and  a  single  step 
will  bring  us  into  Mulberry  Bend,  bright 
with  red  handkerchiefs  and  teeming  with 
the  olive-skinned  children  of  Italy.  No- 
where in  the  whole  city  is  there  a  stronger 
clan  feeling  than  here — a  feeling  that 
manifests  itself  not  only  in  the  craft  and 
ferocity  of  the  vendetta,  but  also  in  a 
spirit  which  impels  these  poverty-stricken 
131 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

exiles  to  stand  by  one  another  in  the  hour 
of  trouble.  There  is  no  better-paying 
property  to  be  had  than  one  of  these  Mul- 
berry Street  tenements,  for  it  is  seldom, 
indeed,  that  the  Italian  poor  will  permit 
one  of  their  number  to  be  turned  into  the 
street  for  want  of  a  month's  rent. 

The  Jewish  old-clothing  quarter  that 
lies  close  to  the  Five  Points  is  near  by. 
The  "  pullers-in,"  as  the  sidewalk  sales- 
men are  termed  in  the  vernacular  of  the 
trade,  transact  business  with  a  ferocity 
that  can  be  best  likened  to  that  of  Sibe- 
rian wolves;  but  over  beyond  Chatham 
Square  lies  the  Hebrew  burying-ground, 
an  ancient  patch  of  sacred  soil  which  all 
the  money  in  New  York  could  not  buy 
from  the  descendants  of  those  whose  ashes 
repose  there. 

A  few  short  blocks  north  of  this  old 

landmark  lies  one  of  the  most  famous 

political  districts  in  the  town,  one  which 

is  lia^e  to  become  the  pivotal  point  in  an 

132 


THE  LITEEAET  SHOP 

exciting  and  closely  contested  election. 
There  is  a  saloon  here  on  one  of  the  side- 
streets  which  it  may  be  worth  your  while 
to  visit.  It  is  a  dark,  uninviting  place, 
and  its  interior,  with  its  rows  of  liquor 
barrels  and  boxes  and  its  throng  of  blear- 
eyed,  tough-looking  customers,  suggests 
anything  but  wealth  and  power.  Never- 
theless the  taciturn  little  Irishman  whose 
name  is  over  the  door  has  grown  rich  here 
and  is  the  Warwick  of  the  district  so  far 
as  the  minor  city  offices  are  concerned. 
And  it  was  to  this  rumshop,  as  the  whole 
ward  knows,  that  a  President  of  the 
United  States  came  in  his  carriage  one 
Sunday  morning  not  many  years  ago,  to 
make  sure  of  the  fealty  of  its  proprietor 
and  pour  the  oil  of  patronage  on  the 
troubled  political  waters. 

And  furthermore  it  is  related  of  this 
district  boss — who  stands  in  the  same  re- 
lation to  his  constituents  that  the  Roman 
senator  of  old  did  to  his  clients — that 
133 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

once  at  the  close  of  an  election  day  of 
more  than  ordinaiy  importance  one  of  his 
lieutenants  burst  in  upon  him,  as  he  sat 
with  a  few  faithful  henchmen  in  the  back 
room  of  his  saloon,  and  announced  tri- 
umphantly that  his  candidate  had  carried 
a  certain  election  district  by  a  vote  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty-five  to  one.  And  at 
this  intelligence  the  east-side  Warwick 
swore  a  mighty  oath,  and,  striking  his 
clenched  fist  fiercely  on  the  table  before 
him,  exclaimed :  "  What  I  want  to  know  is 
the  name  of  the  wan  sucker  that  voted 
agin  us ! " 

And  while  you  are  strolling  along  the 
Bowery  you  may  come  across  an  oldish- 
looking  man  with  a  dyed  or  gray  mustache 
and  a  suggestion  of  former  rakishness  in 
his  seedy  clothes  and  well-preserved  silk 
hat — a  man  who  seems  to  have  outlived 
his  calling,  whatever  it  may  have  been, 
and  to  have  been  left  high  and  dry  with 
no  intimate  companionship  save  that  of 
134 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

his  own  thoughts.  It  will  pay  you  to  get 
acquainted  with  this  old  man,  for  he  be- 
longs to  a  race  which  is  fast  disappearing, 
the  race  of  old-time  American  gamblers, 
of  which  Bret  Harte's  John  Oakhurst  is 
the  best  type  to  be  found  in  our  national 
fiction.  He  still  survives  in  the  West 
and  South,  but  here  in  New  York  his 
place  has  been  taken  by  the  new  brood  of 
race-track  plungers  and  Hebrew  book- 
makers ;  and  the  faro-box  from  which  he 
used  to  deal  with  deft  fingers,  and  the 
lookout  chair  from  which  he  was  wont  in 
the  olden  times  to  watch  the  progress  of 
the  game  with  quick,  searching  eyes  and 
impassive  face,  know  him  no  more. 

If  you  are  studying  the  different  dia- 
lects of  the  town,  you  should  make  care- 
ful notes  of  this  old  man's  speech  and  of 
the  peculiar  way  in  which  he  uses  the 
present  tense  in  describing  bygone  hap- 
penings. Mr.  H.  L.  Wilson  has  given  us, 
in  his  excellent  book  of  stories  called  Zig- 
135 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

zarj  Talcs,  the  following  delicious  bit  of 
dialect,  which  I  quote  because  it  well  illus- 
trates what  I  have  said.  The  words  are 
taken  from  the  lips  of  the  "  lookout,"  and 
are  addressed  in  a  cautious  undertone  to 
the  faro-dealer : 

"  See  his  nobs  there  with  the  moniment 
of  azures?  I'm  bettin'  chips  to  coppers 
that's  Short-card  Pete.  He's  had  his  mus- 
tache cut  off,  'n'  he's  heavier  'n  he  was 
ten  years  ago.  He  tends  bar  in  Noor- 
leans,  in  '68,  fer  Doc  Nagle — ole  Doc, 
you  rec'lect — 'n'  he  works  the  boats  a 
spell  after  that.  See  'im  one  night  play'n' 
bank  at  Alf  Hennesey's,  an'  he  pulls  out 
thirty-two  solid  thousan';  Slab  McG-arr 
was  dealin',  'nis  duck  here  makes  him 
turn  over  the  box.  See  'im  'nother  time 
at  San'tone,  'na  little  geeser  works  a 
sleeve  holdout  on  'im — one  a  these  here 
ole-time  tin  businesses ;  you  never  see  a 
purtier  gun  play  'n  he  makes — it  goes, 
too ;  mebbe  it  was  n'swif ' !  He's  a-pullin' 

136 


THE  LITER  ART  SHOP 

on  that  gang ;  get  onto  that  chump  shuf- 
fle, will  you  ?  Ain't  that  a  play  f er  yer 
life  ?  He  ain't  overlookin'  any  bets." 

"  What  are  you  giving  us  ? "  is  the  con- 
temptuous cry  of  my  young  friend  from 
Park  Row  who  has  done  me  the  honor  to 
read  what  I  have  written.  "  I  know  all 
that  about  Chinatown  and  the  politicians 
as  well  as  you  do." 

So  you  do,  my  young  friend,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  you  know  it  a  great  deal 
better  than  I  do ;  but  I  had  a  double  mo- 
tive in  offering  you  the  words  of  sugges- 
tion which  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
follow.  In  the  first  place,  when  the  young 
literary  man  of  limited  achievement,  re- 
ferred to  in  an  earlier  part  of  this  chap- 
ter, obtains  an  order  for  an  article  on 
"  The  Coast  of  Chatham  Square,"  he  will 
probably  come  to  you  to  find  out  where 
Chatham  Square  is  and  at  what  time  they 
light  the  gas  there ;  and  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  glad  to  help  him  to  the  full  extent 
137 


THE  LITER ART  SHOP 

of  your  knowledge,  although  you  may 
wonder  why  the  order  was  given  to  him 
instead  of  to  you.  In  the  second  place, 
although  the  whole  of  the  east  side  is 
familiar  ground  to  you,  there  are  plenty 
of  intelligent,  well-informed  men  and 
women  who  know  very  little  about  what 
this  city  contains,  and  if  you  will  read  my 
next  chapter  you  will  learn  of  the  impres- 
sion which  the  tenement-house  district 
made  upon  a  certain  distinguished  gentle- 
man who  saw  it  recently  for  the  first  time. 


138 


CHAPTER  X. 

"HE  TBUN  UP  BOTE  HANDS!" 

ONE  summer  evening  not  very  long 
ago,  I  saw,  to  my  intense  surprise,  Mr. 
Richard  Watson  Gilder  crawl  cautiously 
through  the  barbed- wire  fence  which  was 
long  ago  stretched,  with  his  sanction, 
across  the  city  at  Cooper  Union.  Once 
within  the  tabooed  district,  the  distin- 
guished poet  and  Century  editor  cast  an 
apprehensive  glance  about  him  and  then 
marched  swiftly  and  resolutely  down  the 
Bowery.  Late  that  night  I  caught  an- 
other  glimpse  of  him  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  one  of  the  side-streets  that  lead  to 
the  East  River,  and  gazing  thoughtfully 
at  the  tops  of  the  tall  tenement-houses  on 
either  side  of  him. 

139 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

I  could  not  help  wondering  what 
strange  errand  had  brought  him  to  that 
crowded  quarter  of  the  town,  for  not 
many  months  before  one  of  his  own 
trusted  subordinates  had  blandly  in- 
formed me  that  there  was  nothing  in  New 
York  to  write  about,  excepting,  of  course, 
such  phases  of  its  social  life  as  had  been 
portrayed,  more  or  less  truthfully  and 
vividly,  in  the  pages  of  Mr.  Gilder's  own 
magazine. 

I  was  still  marveling  at  the  spectacle 
of  the  poet  in  search  of  facts  when  I  came 
across  one  of  my  east-side  acquaintances, 
who  had  seen  and  recognized  the  Century 
editor,  and  from  him  I  learned  that  he 
was  pursuing  his  studies  of  what  is  known 
in  the  magazine  offices  as  "  low  life,"  not 
that  he  might  write  about  it  or  be  capable 
of  judging  the  manuscript  of  those  who 
did  write  about  it,  but  by  virtue  of  his 
office  on  the  Tenement-house  Commis- 
sion. 

140 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

"He's  just  been  down  Ludlow  Street, 
an'  troo  one  o'  dem  houses  where  de  Jew 
sweaters  is,"  added  my  friend. 

"  And  what  did  he  say  to  it  all  ?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  He  trun  up  bote  hands ! "  said  the 
east-sider,  earnestly. 

I  walked  home  that  night  weighed  down 
with  the  import  of  what  I  had  learned, 
and  filled  with  solemn  speculations  re- 
garding the  effect  which  Mr.  Gilder's  visit 
would  have  on  American  letters.  I  could 
picture  to  myself  the  hands  that  would 
be  "  trun  up  "  in  the  Century  office  when 
the  accomplished  members  of  the  editorial 
corps  learned  that  their  revered  chief  had 
actually  ventured  into  the  heart  of  a  dis- 
trict which  teems  with  an  infinite  variety 
of  human  life  and  lies  but  a  scant  mile  to 
the  south  of  the  desk  from  which  Mr. 
Johnson  rules  the  literary  world  of  this 
continent. 

And  I  thought,  also,  of  the  excitement 
141 


THE  LITERAEY  SHOP 

that  would  run  through  the  ranks  of  the 
writers  should  Mr.  Johnson,  of  course 
after  solemn  and  secret  communion  with 
Mr.  Gilder,  announce  officially  that  at 
twelve  o'clock,  noon,  on  the  first  day  of 
the  month,  the  firing  of  a  gun,  foUowed 
by  the  destruction  of  the  barbed-wire 
fence,  would  throw  open  the  long-forbid- 
den low-lif e  territory  to  poets,  romancers, 
and  dialectists  of  every  degree.  What  a 
rush  of  literary  boomers  there  would  be 
to  this  new  Oklahoma  should  this  old  bar- 
rier be  torn  down!  I  could  not  help 
smiling  as  I  pictured  to  myself  the 
strangely  gifted  American  story-writers 
groping  their  way  through  picturesque 
and  unfamiliar  scenes,  and  listening  in 
vain  for  the  good  old  "  bad  man's  "  dialect 
that  has  done  duty  in  fiction  ever  since 
Thackeray  visited  this  country,  but  which 
was  swept  away  long  since  by  the  great 
flood-tide  of  German  and  Jewish  immi- 
gration which  has  wrought  so  many 
142 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

changes  in  the  life  of  the  town.  How 
many  ink-stained  hands  would  be  "  trun 
up"  before  the  first  day  of  exploration 
was  done !  How  many  celebrated  deline- 
ators of  New  York  life  and  character 
would  lose  themselves  in  their  search, 
after  dark,  for  "local  color/'  and  be 
gathered  in  like  lost  children  to  be  cared 
for  by  Matron  Webb  until  rescued  by 
their  friends  the  next  morning ! 

Still  brooding  over  the  enormous  pos- 
sibilities of  the  future,  I  stopped  to  rest 
and  refresh  myself  in  a  modest  and  re- 
spectable little  German  beer-saloon,  sit- 
uated on  the  tabooed  side  of  the  barbed- 
wire  fence — on  the  very  border-land 
between  low  life  and  legitimate  literary 
territory.  It  is  an  ordinary  enough 
little  place,  with  a  bar  and  tables  in 
front,  and,  in  a  space  curtained  off  at 
the  rear,  a  good-sized  room  often  used 
for  meetings  and  various  forms  of  merry- 
making. I  never  drop  in  for  a  glass  of 

143 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

beer  without  thinking  of  a  supper  given 
in  that  back  room  a  few  years  ago  at 
which  I  was  a  guest ;  and  on  this  particu- 
lar night  remembrance  of  that  feast  had 
a  new  significance,  for  it  was  blended 
with  thoughts  of  Mr.  Gilder's  journey- 
ings.  It  was  an  actor  who  gave  the 
supper — one  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
talented  of  the  many  foreign  entertain- 
ers who  have  visited  our  shores — and 
nearly  every  one  of  his  guests  had  won 
some  sort  of  artistic  distinction.  It 
is  not  the  sort  of  a  place  that  suggests 
luxurious  feasting,  but  the  supper  which 
the  worthy  G-erman  and  his  wife  set  be- 
fore us  was,  to  me,  a  revelation  of  the 
resources  of  their  national  cookery.  The 
occasion  lingers  in  my  memory,  however, 
chiefly  by  reason  of  the  charm  and  tact 
and  brilliancy  of  the  woman  who  sat  in 
the  place  of  honor — a  woman  whose 
name  rang  through  Europe  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago  as  that  of  the 
144 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

heroine  of  one  of  the  most  sensational 
duels  of  modern  times.  Mr.  Gilder  has 
probably  read  about  her  in  The  Tragic 
Comedians,  in  which  George  Meredith 
has  made  her  the  principal  character, 
and  I  am  sure  that  if  he — the  Century 
editor,  not  Mr.  Meredith — had  looked  in 
upon  our  little  supper  party  that  night, 
he  would  have  "  trun  up  bote  hands,"  in 
the  full  sense  of  that  unique  and  expres- 
sive term. 

Recollections  of  this  feast  brought  to 
mind  another  which  was  given  about 
two  years  ago  fully  half  a  mile  to  the 
south  of  the  barbed-wire  fence,  and 
which  is  worthy  of  mention  here  because 
it  taught  me  that  some  of  the  people 
bred  in  that  region  are  vaguely  conscious 
of  a  just  claim  that  they  have  on  the  at- 
tention of  story-writers  and  rather  re- 
sent the  fact  that  a  place  in  our  national 
literature  has  been  denied  them. 

The  feast  to  which  I  allude  was  given 
145 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

on  the  occasion  of  a  great  wedding  in  a 
quarter  of  the  town  which  plays  an  im- 
portant part  in  civic  and  national  affairs 
on  the  first  Tuesday  after  the  first  Mon- 
day in  November — one  in  which  the 
trade  of  politics  ranks  as  one  of  the 
learned  professions — a  quarter  where 
events  date  from  the  reigns  of  the  dif- 
ferent police  captains. 

The  bride  was  the  daughter  of  a  fa- 
mous politician,  and  I  am  sure  that  in 
point  of  beauty  and  tasteful  dress  she 
might  have  passed  muster  at  Tuxedo. 
She  was  tall,  graceful,  and  very  young — 
not  more  than  seventeen.  One  could  see 
traces  of  her  Hebrew  lineage  in  her  ex- 
quisitely lovely  face,  and  I  am  sure  she 
was  well  dressed,  because  she  wore  noth- 
ing that  in  any  way  detracted  from  her 
rare  beauty  or  was  offensive  to  the  eye. 

She  had  been  brought  up  near  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Bowery  and  Hester  Street,  in 
the  very  centre  of  one  of  the  most  vi- 
146 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

cious  and  depraved  quarters  of  the  town ; 
and  as  I  talked  with  her  that  night  she 
told  me  how  most  of  her  childhood  had 
been  spent  playing  with  her  little  broth- 
ers and  sisters  in  the  garden  which  her 
father  had  built  for  them  on  the  roof  of 
the  house  in  which  they  lived,  and  on  the 
ground  floor  of  which  he  kept  the  saloon 
which  laid  the  foundations  of  his  present 
political  influence.  She  spoke  simply 
and  in  good  English,  and  one  could 
easily  see  how  carefully  she  had  been 
shielded  from  all  knowledge  even  of  that 
which  went  on  around  her. 

An  extraordinary  company  had  as- 
sembled to  witness  the  ceremony  and 
take  part  in  the  festivities  which  fol- 
lowed, and  as  I  sat  beside  two  brilliant, 
shrewd,  worldly-wise  Hebrews  of  my  ac- 
quaintance we  remarked  that  it  would  be 
a  long  while  before  we  could  expect  to 
see  another  such  gathering.  The  most 
important  of  the  guests  were  those  high 
147 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

in  political  authority  or  in  the  police  de- 
partment, men  whose  election  districts 
are  the  modern  prototype  of  the  English 
"  pocket  boroughs  "  of  the  last  century  j 
while  the  humblest  of  them  all,  and  the 
merriest  as  well,  was  the  deaf-and-dumb 
boot-black  of  a  down-town  police  court, 
who  appeared  in  the  unwonted  splendor 
of  a  suit  which  he  had  hired  especially 
for  the  occasion,  and  to  which  was  at- 
tached a  gorgeous  plated  watch-chain. 
" Dummy"  had  never  been  to  dancing- 
school,  but  he  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of 
sliding  across  the  floor,  and  he  showed 
his  skill  between  the  different  sets,  utter- 
ing unintelligible  cries  of  delight  and 
smiling  blandly  upon  his  acquaintances 
as  he  glided  swiftly  by  them. 

Several  of  the  gentlemen  present  had 
"done  time"  in  previous  years,  and 
others — John  Y.  McKane  for  example — 
have  since  then  been  "sent  away."  I 
saw  one  guest  wink  pleasantly  at  a  police 

148 


THE  L1TEEAET  SHOP 

captain  who  was  standing  near  Mm  and 
then  slyly  "lift"  the  watch  from  a 
friend's  pocket,  merely  to  show  that  he 
had  not  lost  his  skill.  A  moment  later 
he  awakened  a  little  innocent  mirth  by 
asking  his  unsuspecting  friend  what  time 
it  was. 

I  dare  say  that  a  great  many  of  my 
readers  imagine  that  at  a  festivity  of  this 
description  "  down  on  the  east  side  "  the 
men  appear  for  the  most  part  clad  in  the 
red  shirts  which  were  in  vogue  at  the 
time  of  Thackeray's  visit  to  America,  and 
which  now  exist  only  in  the  minds  of 
those  writers  who  are  famous  for  the 
accuracy  of  their  local  color.  As  for 
the  women,  I  have  no  doubt  these  same 
readers  picture  them  in  garments  similar 
to  those  worn  by  the  "  tough  girl "  in 
Mr.  Harrigan's  drama,  nor  would  they 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  there  was  a 
fight  every  twenty  minutes. 

For  their  special  benefit  I  will  explain 
149 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

that  nearly  every  one  of  the  men  wore 
evening  dress  of  the  conventional  pat- 
tern, and  that  the  display  of  diamonds 
and  costly  gowns — many  of  which  were 
tasteful  as  well — was  a  noteworthy  one. 
There  was  an  abundance  of  wine  and 
strong  drink  for  everybody,  and  a  very 
thirsty  company  it  was,  too,  but  not  a 
sign  of  trouble  did  I  see  the  whole  eve- 
ning through.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is 
that  to  the  majority  of  the  men  and 
women  present  a  fight  was  a  serious 
affair,  and  one  not  to  be  entered  into 
lightly  and  unadvisedly. 

For  three  hours  I  sat  with  my  two 
Israeli tish  friends — a  pool-room  keeper 
and  a  dime-museum  manager  respectively 
— and  talked  about  the  people  who 
passed  and  repassed  before  us,  and  I 
am  bound  to  say  that  the  conversation 
of  a  clever  New  York  Jew  of  their  type 
is  almost  always  edifying  and  amusing. 

"  It's  a  curious  thing,"  said  one  of  my 

150 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

companions  at  last,  "  but  I  really  believe 
that  we  three  men  at  this  table  are  the 
only  ones  in  the  whole  room  who  have 
any  sort  of  sense  of  the  picturesqueness 
of  this  thing,  or  are  onto  the  gang  of 
people  gathered  together  here.  There's 
probably  not  a  soul  in  the  room  outside 
of  ourselves  but  what  imagines  that  this 
is  just  a  plain,  every-day  sort  of  crowd 
and  not  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
collections  of  human  beings  I've  ever 
seen  in  my  life,  and  I've  been  knocking 
round  New  York  ever  since  I  was  knee- 
high.  There  are  thousands  of  people 
giving  up  their  good  dust  every  week 
to  go  in  and  look  at  the  freaks  in  my 
museum,  and  there's  not  one  of  them 
that's  as  interesting  as  dozens  that  we 
can  see  here  to-night  for  nothing.  Just 
look  at  that  woman  over  there  that  all 
the  politicians  are  bowing  down  to ;  and 
they've  got  a  right  to,  too,  for  she's  a 
big  power  in  the  district  and  knows 

151 


THE  LITERAliY  SHOP 

more  about  politics  than  Barney  Rourke. 
They  never  dared  pull  her  place  when 
the  police  were  making  all  those  raids 
last  month.  Those  diamonds  she  wears 
are  worth  ten  thousand  if  they're  worth 
a  cent.  There's  a  man  who  wouldn't  be 
here  to-night  if  it  wasn't  for  the  time 
they  allow  on  a  sentence  for  good  be- 
havior, and  that  fellow  next  him  keeps  a 
fence  down  in  Elizabeth  Street.  .  There's 
pretty  near  every  class  of  New  Yorkers 
represented  here  to-night  except  the 
fellows  that  write  the  stories  in  the 
magazines.  Where's  Howells?  I  don't 
see  him  anywhere  around/'  he  ex- 
claimed, ironically,  rising  from  his  chair 
as  he  spoke  and  peering  curiously  about. 
"Look  under  the  table  and  see  if  he's 
there  taking  notes.  Oh  yes,  I  read  the 
magazines  very  often  when  I  have  time, 
and  some  of  the  things  I  find  in  them 
are  mighty  good;  but  when  those  liter- 
ary ducks  start  in  to  describe  New  York, 
152 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

or  at  least  this  part  of  it — well,  excuse 
me,  I  don't  want  any  of  it.  This  would 
be  a  great  place,  though,  for  a  story- 
writer  to  come  to  if  he  really  wanted  to 
learn  anything  about  the  town." 

I  am  perfectly  sure  that  if  Mr.  Gilder 
had  turned  up  at  that  wedding  his 
hands  would  not  have  been  the  only 
ones  "trun  up77  in  honor  of  the  visit. 
And  I  firmly  believe  that  the  visit  of  the 
Century  editor  to  what  is  said  to  be  the 
most  densely  populated  square  mile  in 
the  world  will  prove  pregnant  of  great 
results,  and  may  perhaps  mark  a  distinct 
epoch  in  the  history  of  letters. 

On  looking  back  over  what  I  have 
written,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  de- 
voted too  much  of  my  space  to  that 
portion  of  the  city  which  lies  below  the 
barbed- wire  fence ;  but  I  hope  my  trans- 
gression will  be  pardoned  in  view  of  the 
great  significance  of  Mr.  Gilder's  recent 
explorations  and  also  of  the  fact  that  the 

153 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

region  itself  is  so  rich  in  literary  mate- 
rial of  the  sort  that  a  Victor  Hugo  or  a 
Dickens  would  have  seized  upon  with 
avidity.  There  are  young  men  working 
in  newspaper  offices  now  who  will  one  of 
these  days  draw  true  and  vivid  pictures 
of  modern  New  York  as  it  appears  in  the 
eyes  and  the  brains  of  those  who  know  it 
thoroughly,  and  very  interesting  fiction 
it  will  be,  too.  The  late  Mr.  Mines  (Felix 
Oldboy)  and  Mr.  Thomas  A.  Janvier  have 
written  successfully  and  entertainingly  of 
the  town  that  our  fathers  and  grandpar- 
ents knew,  but  the  book  on  New  York  of 
to-day  has  yet  to  be  written,  and  I  know 
of  no  one  better  qualified  for  the  task 
than  my  young  friend  the  reporter, 
whom  I  have  personally  addressed  in 
preceding  chapters. 

It  seems  to  me  something  like  high 
treason  to  even  hint  of  the  possibility  of 
a  break  in  the  present  literary  dynasty — 
an  event  which  would  be  deplored  by 

154 


THE  LITER AET  SHOP 

none  more  bitterly  than  by  my  loyal  self. 
Mr.  Johnson's  powers  are  still  unimpaired, 
and  his  grasp  on  his  pruning-hook  is  as 
firm  as  it  was  on  the  day  that  he  sug- 
gested the  reduction  of  the  twelve  flasks 
to  two  or  three.  I  desire  nothing  more 
than  that  in  history's  page  my  name  shall 
brightly  glow  beside  liis  as  his  Boswell. 
Mr.  Bok  has  already  shown  such  remark- 
able capacity  for  benign  and  progressive 
rule  that  we  may  look  forward  with  a 
reasonable  degree  of  confidence  to  his 
peaceful  and  undisputed  accession  to  the 
throne,  and  a  new  impetus  to  the  sale  of 
his  photographs,  which  are  dirt-cheap  at 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar. 

And  yet  let  us  not  forget  that  France 
was  not  always  a  republic  nor  Germany 
a  united  empire;  nor  has  there  always 
been  a  Guelph  on  the  throne  of  Edward 
the  Confessor.  During  the  past  year  a 
new  literary  power  has  arisen  among  us 
in  the  shape  of  the  cheap  magazines — 

155 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

McClure?s,  the  Cosmopolitan,  and  Munsey's 
— a  power  which  is  making  itself  felt 
more  strongly  every  day,  and  may  in  the 
near  future  prove  a  serious  menace  to 
the  established  order  of  things.  The 
rapidity  with  which  these  cheap  month- 
lies have  established  themselves  in  the 
popular  esteem  is  due  primarily  to  the 
low  price  at  which  they  are  offered,  and 
also,  in  a  measure,  to  the  fact  that  their 
conductors  have  not  grown  up  in  the 
Ledger  or  Johnson  school,  and  therefore 
are  not  accomplished  in  the  sort  of  edit- 
ing which  has  reached  its  highest  devel- 
opment in  the  offices  of  the  leading 
monthlies.  But  it  happens  that  each 
one  of  these  cheap  periodicals  is  con- 
trolled by  a  man  of  restless,  energetic 
temperament — what  is  known  in  com- 
mon parlance  as  a  "hustler" — and  if  I 
am  not  much  mistaken  each  one  of  these 
hustlers  is  firmly  imbued  with  the  Amer- 
ican fancy  for  exploring  new  and  untried 
156 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

fields.  Several  of  the  stories  published 
in  these  cheap  magazines  are  of  a  sort 
forbidden  in  their  more  venerable  con- 
temporaries; and  while  I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  say  that  these  stories  are  equal 
in  point  of  merit  to  the  ones  which  have 
been  subjected  to  the  Johnsonian  process 
of  selection  and  elimination,  they  have 
attracted  attention  because  people  found 
them  different  from  those  to  which  they 
had«been  accustomed. 

Personally  I  have  a  profound  faith  in 
American  hustlers.  To  me  the  term  hust- 
ling is  synonymous  with  those  which  de- 
scribe cable-laying,  bridge-building,  and 
material  progress  of  every  kind,  and 
when  hustlers  go  into  the  business  of 
publishing  magazines  it  is  time  to  be  on 
the  lookout  for  change  of  some  sort. 
That  the  conductors  of  their  older  con- 
temporaries appreciate  this  fact  and  are 
getting  ready  to  trim  sail  if  necessary  is 
made  evident  to  me  by  the  Harpers'  pub- 
157 


THE  LITER  ART  SHOP 

lication  of  "Trilby,"  and  Mr.  Gilder's  jour- 
ney to  the  populous  kraals  of  the  east 
side. 

I  will  say  no  more  regarding  the  cheap 
monthlies  and  their  possible  importance 
in  the  near  future,  because  I  do  not  wish 
to  run  the  risk  of  being  put  on  trial  for 
high  treason;  and  so  I  will  bring  my 
chapter  to  a  close  with  a  few  words  on  a 
subject  which  I  am  sure  lies  close  to  the 
heart  of  every  true  woman  in  the  land — 
the  unexampled  philanthropy  shown  by 
Mr.  Bok  in  placing  his  photographs 
within  reach  of  the  humblest  and  poor- 
est of  his  admirers.  The  editor's  philan- 
thropy is  exceeded  only  by  the  diffidence 
betrayed  in  his  announcement  of  the  ad- 
dress of  the  photographer  and  the  low 
price  charged  for  the  portraits. 

The  code  of  etiquette  which  governs 
the  conduct  of  the  dime-museum  lecturer 
ordains  that  no  brutally  frank  or  em- 
phatic allusions  shall  be  made  to  the 
158 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP  * 

pictures  of  the  different  human  "  freaks  " 
which  are  offered  for  sale.  "  I  believe," 
says  the  lecturer,  in  a  tone  of  complete 
indifference,  as  he  brings  his  glowing 
eulogy  of  the  "  Tattooed  Queen  "  to  a  fit- 
ting close,  "that  the  lady  has  a  few  of 
her  photographs  which  she  wishes  to  dis- 
pose of."  And  as  the  lady  has  eight  of 
them  in  each  hand,  and  twenty-two  more 
arranged  along  the  edge  of  the  platform 
in  front  of  her,  even  the  most  skeptical 
audience  is  forced  to  admit  that  the  pro- 
fessor's surmise  is  correct. 

"  I  believe,"  says  the  diffident  Mr.  Bok, 
"that  there  are  some  fair  likenesses  of 
myself  for  sale  on  Chestnut  Street,  and 
I  understand  that  they  cost  a  quarter 
apiece." 

My  readers  can  depend  upon  it  that 
what  Mr.  Bok  has  to  say  about  those 
photographs  is  absolutely  true. 


159 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  CONCLUSION  OF  THE  WHOLE  MATTER. 

LET  us  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter.  But  first  of  all  let  us  think  of  the 
many  mercies  for  which  we  have  to  be 
thankful,  and  then  let  us  be  just  as  well 
as  generous ;  for  certainly  the  magazines 
have  been  of  enormous  benefit  to  the 
reading  public  as  well  as  to  those  whose 
profession  it  is  to  entertain,  amuse,  or 
instruct  that  public. 

The  magazines  have  not  only  raised  the 
rates  of  compensation  for  literary  labor, 
but  they  have  spread  the  reading  habit 
to  an  enormous  extent,  and  are  still  edu- 
cating vast  numbers  of  people — of  a  class 
160 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

that  do  not  read  at  all  when  they  happen 
to  be  bom  in  other  countries — to  become 
habitual  buyers  of  books  and  periodicals. 
Moreover  it  must  be  said  of  the  editors  of 
these  publications  that  they  place  their 
time  at  the  disposal  of  every  aspiring 
author  who  brings  his  manuscript  to 
them.  In  other  words,  they  give  careful 
attention  to  whatever  work  is  submitted 
to  them,  and  are  glad  to  buy  and  pay 
promptly  for  such  stories  and  poems  as 
they  may  deem  suitable  to  their  needs.  I 
have  never  seen  any  disposition  on  the 
part  of  any  of  them  to  crush  budding 
genius,  but,  on  the  contrary,  I  have  fre- 
quently met  them  on  dark,  rainy  nights 
hunting  through  the  town  with  lanterns 
in  their  hands  for  new  writers.  In  fact, 
I  do  not  know  of  any  place  in  this  world 
where  a  young  man  may  look  for  fairer 
attention  and  encouragement  than  he  will 
find  in  the  office  of  a  modern  magazine. 
I  have  heard  these  editors  denounced, 
161 


TEE  LITERARY  SHOP 

one  and  all,  by  infuriated  poets  and  ro- 
mancers, for  the  "  favoritism  "  which  had 
been  shown  to  certain  contributors,  but 
I  have  generally  found  that  when  they 
erred  in  this  way  it  was  on  the  side  of 
charity ;  and  if  certain  writers  whose  con- 
tributions we  generally  skip  occupy  more 
room  in  the  monthlies  than  we  think  they 
ought  to,  it  is  not  because  they  are  edi- 
torial pets,  but  because  they  have  been 
careful  students  of  the  great  literary  prin- 
ciples described  in  these  pages,  and  have 
thereby  acquired  the  art  of  writing  ex- 
actly what  can  be  printed  without  injury 
to  the  susceptibilities  of  a  single  adver- 
tiser or  subscriber. 

But  we  have  special  cause  for  being 
thankful  to  the  magazines  when  we  read 
some  of  the  hysterical,  obstetrical,  and 
epigrammatic  romances  which  have  en- 
joyed such  an  astonishing  vogue  in  Eng- 
land of  late  years.  Thank  Heaven !  no 
American  magazine — so  far  as  my  know- 

162 


THE  LITEEART  SHOP 

ledge  goes — has  had  the  effrontery  to  of- 
fer its  readers  any  such  noisome,  diseased 
literature  as  that  with  which  the  alleged 
"  clever "  people  of  London  have  flooded 
our  market.  To  my  way  of  thinking  the 
epigrammatic  books  are  the  most  offen- 
sive of  the  whole  lot,  and  certainly  there 
is  nothing  better  calculated  to  plunge  one 
into  the  depths  of  despair  and  shame  than 
the  perusal  of  a  modern  British  novel 
whose  characters  are  forever  "showing 
off,"  as  children  say,  and  who  seem  to  de- 
vote their  lives  to  uttering  sixpenny  cyn- 
icisms and  evolving,  with  infinite  pains  and 
travail,  the  sort  of  remarks  that  pass  cur- 
rent in  the  "  smart  London  set " — if  these 
chroniclers  are  to  be  believed — as  wit. 

Callow  and  ingenuous  youth  betrays 
itself  by  two  unmistakable  earmarks. 
One  of  these  is  in  the  form  of  a  slight 
down  on  the  cheek,  and  the  other  is  the 
belief  that  Oscar  Wilde  writes  brilliant 
epigram. 

163 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

I  attended  the  first  American  repre- 
sentation of  a  play  by  that  distinguished 
author,  and  can  well  recall  my  feelings 
when  an  able-bodied  mummer  took  the 
centre  of  the  stage  and  said,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  has  been  rolling  a  good 
thing  under  his  tongue  all  the  evening, 
and  at  last  has  a  chance  to  utter  it: 
"Time  is  the  thief  of  procrastination." 
A  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through 
the  house,  but  I — I  sobbed  like  a  heart- 
broken child. 

And  yet  Mr.  Wilde  is  one  of  the  clev- 
erest of  the  whole  brood  of  fat-witted 
chromo-cynics  whose  vulgar  flippancies 
have  somehow  come  to  be  regarded  as 
witty  and  amusing,  and  that,  too,  by  peo- 
ple who  ought  to  know  better.  It  posi- 
tively makes  me  sick  to  see  one  of  these 
paper-covered  chronicles  of  fashionable 
imbecility  lying  on  a  parlor  table,  and  to 
hear  it  spoken  of  as  "so  delightfully 
bright  and  clever,  don't  you  know." 

164 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

Heine  was  a  genuine  cynic  and  the 
maker  of  epigrams  which  he  wrote  as 
easily  and  naturally  as  Bobby  Burns 
wrote  verses  5  and  if  there  is  anything  in 
the  world  which  can  be  accomplished,  if 
at  all,  without  manual  labor  and  the  ac- 
companying sweat  of  the  brow,  it  is  the 
utterance  of  really  witty  or  epigrammatic 
remarks.  But  these  leaden-footed  Eng- 
lish wits  somehow  convey  to  me  a  vision 
of  a  cynic  in  toil-stained  overalls  going 
forth  in  the  gray  of  the  early  morning, 
dinner-pail  in  hand,  for  a  hard  day's  work 
at  being  epigrammatic  and  funny. 

And  while  I  am  on  the  subject  of  epi- 
gram and  cynicism,  I  cannot  help  won- 
dering what  Heine  would  have  done  for 
a  living  had  his  lot  been  cast  in  our  own 
age  and  country.  Imagine  him  offering 
manuscript  to  the  Ladies'  Some  Journal  I 
(By  the  way,  Bok  ought  not  to  let  those 
photographs  go  for  twenty-five  cents 
apiece.  They're  worth  a  dollar  if  they're 

165 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

worth  a  cent.)  Think  of  the  sensation 
that  the  Beisebilder  would  create  in  the 
Century  office ! 

My  own  opinion  is  that  Heine  would, 
were  he  living  here  to-day,  find  occupation 
as  a  paragrapher  on  some  Western  paper, 
acquire  some  nebulous  renown  as  the 
"  Ann  Arbor  Clarion  man  "  or  the  "  Omaha 
Bumblebee  man,"  and  be  consigned  in  his 
old  age  to  that  Home  for  Literary  Incur- 
ables known  as  the  McClure  Syndicate. 

There  is  a  book  of  excerpts  from  the 
writings  of  this  gifted  man,  published 
some  years  ago  by  Henry  Holt  &  Co., 
and  now,  unhappily  enough,  out  of  print. 
These  excerpts  are  so  well  selected  and 
convey  to  us  so  vividly  the  charm  of  this 
matchless  writer  that  I  took  the  trouble 
some  time  ago  to  inquire  into  the  way  in 
which  the  work  was  done.  I  learned  on 
undisputed  authority  that  Mr.  Holt,  who 
has  not  spent  his  life  in  the  literary  busi- 
ness for  nothing,  borrowed  a  pruning- 

166 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

hook  from  the  Century  office,  placed  it, 
together  with  Heine's  complete  works,  in 
the  hands  of  an  experienced  and  skilled 
magazine  editor,  and  bade  him  "edit" 
them  as  if  they  were  intended  for  publi- 
cation in  his  own  monthly.  The  skilled 
and  experienced  editor  opened  the  vol- 
umes, and  the  pruning-hook — also  a 
skilled  and  experienced  instrument  of 
mutilation — fairly  leaped  from  its  scab- 
bard in  its  eagerness  to  eliminate  the 
dangerous  passages.  When  the  editor 
had  completed  his  task  Mr.  Holt  gathered 
up  the  parings  from  the  floor  and  pub- 
lished them  under  the  title  of  Scintilla- 
tions from  Heine;  and  I  sincerely  hope 
that  a  new  edition  of  this  book  will  be 
brought  out  before  long,  if  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  show  people  what  a  real 
epigram  is  and  how  sharp  it  can  bite. 

There  is  another  variety  of  literature 
which  I  dislike,  and  which  seems  to  have 
attained  a  ranker  and  more  unwholesome 
167 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

growth  in  this  country  than  elsewhere. 
I  refer  to  those  articles  and  books  whose 
sole  purpose  seems  to  be  the  exploiting  of 
men  and  women  who  are  really  unworthy 
of  any  serious  consideration.  The  John- 
sonian period  is  rich  in  specimens  of  this 
sort  of  work,  and  the  future  historian  will 
marvel  at  the  absurd  prominence  given 
in  this  enlightened  age  to  people  who 
have  never  accomplished  anything  in 
their  lives,  and  who  themselves  evince 
the  greatest  eagerness  to  transmit  to  pos- 
terity authentic  records  of  their  failures. 
"How  I  Lost  the  Battle,"  by  Captain 
Runoff,  of  the  Russian  army ;  "Driven  out 
of  Asia  Minor,"  by  General  Skates;  and 
"Ever  so  Many  Miles  from  the  North 
Pole,"  by  Lieutenant  Queary,  are  excel- 
lent examples  of  this  style  of  literature ; 
but  a  far  lower  depth  was  reached  about 
two  years  ago,  when  the  Harpers  burst 
into  enthusiastic  praise  of  a  young  man 
named  Chanler,  who  had  announced  his 

168 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

intention  of  discovering  Africa,  and  pro- 
posed to  awe  and  conciliate  the  ferocious 
native  chiefs  by  performing  in  their  pres- 
ence various  difficult  feats  of  legerdemain 
which  he  had  taken  the  pains  to  learn 
from  a  professional  master  in  London. 

What  has  become  of  that  gifted  young 
man  for  whom  the  Harpers  predicted 
such  a  rosy  future  ?  Perhaps  at  this  very 
moment  he  is  seated  in  a  deep,  shady 
African  jungle  making  an  omelet  in 
a  high  silk  hat  or  converting  a  soiled 
pocket-handkerchief  into  a  glass  globe 
full  of  goldfish.  I  can  picture  him  stand- 
ing, alone  and  unarmed,  before  thousands 
of  hostile  spears.  His  eye  is  clear  and 
his  cheek  unblanched.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  will  be  taking  rabbits  out  of  the 
chieftain's  ears,  and  the  dusky  warriors 
will  cower,  in  abject  submission,  at  his 
feet. 

There  is  one  thing  that  can  be  said  in 
favor  of  Mr.  Chanler,  and  that  is  that  up 

169 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

to  the  present  moment  he  has  not  annoyed 
his  fellow-creatures  with  any  lectures  or 
articles  or  stories  descriptive  of  the  won- 
ders that  he  did  not  discover  during  his 
journeyings  in  the  Dark  Continent.  His 
reticence  is  commendable,  and  should 
serve  as  an  example  to  various  windy 
travelers  who  "  explore  "  during  a  period 
of  eight  weeks  and  then  talk  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives. 

Verily  this  is  a  golden  age  for  "  fakirs," 
quacks,  and  intellectual  feather-weights, 
and  my  friendly  advice  to  all  who  may  be 
classified  under  any  one  of  those  three 
heads  is  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines, 
because,  in  my  belief,  the  coming  decade 
will  see  them  relegated  to  the  obscurity 
in  which  they  naturally  belong.  But  our 
little  tuppenny  gods  and  celebrities  have 
kicked  up  so  much  dust  of  late  years  that 
they  have  contrived  to  obscure  the  fame 
of  men  who  are  infinitely  better  worth 
talking  about. 

170 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Singularly  enough,  the  American  who 
achieved  more  with  his  pen  than  any  one 
else  in  his  generation  is  almost  unknown 
to  the  majority  of  his  countrymen  and 
countrywomen,  although  our  government 
paid  an  unusual  tribute  to  his  memory  by 
bringing  his  remains  back  to  his  native 
land  in  a  man-of-war.  The  man  of  whom 
I  write  was  simply  a  reporter  employed 
by  the  New  York  Herald  to  chronicle  con- 
temporaneous European  history.  It  was 
he  who  told  the  civilized  world  the  truth 
about  the  atrocities  committed  by  the 
Turkish  invaders  of  Bulgaria  in  a  series 
of  letters  to  the  Lotidon  Daily  Neivs — 
letters  which  became,  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Gladstone,  a  weapon  with  which  he 
aroused  the  popular  feeling  until  the  Bea- 
consfield  ministry  was  swept  from  power 
and  the  Jingo  spirit  held  in  check  while 
Russia  carried  on  her  "  holy  war  "  against 
the  Porte.  There  is  not  a  statesman  or 
sovereign  in  Europe  who  does  not  know 
171 


THE  LITEEAEY  SHOP 

of  the  important  r61e  which  this  Ameri- 
can reporter  played  in  continental  affairs 
at  the  time  of  the  Eusso-Turkish  war.  If 
you  ask  a  Bulgarian  or  Montenegrin  if 
he  ever  heard  of  J.  A.  MacGahan  he  will 
very  likely  say  to  you  what  one  of  them 
said  to  me :  "  Did  you,  an  American,  ever 
hear  of  George  Washington  ?  Well,  Mac- 
Gahan was  our  Washington,  and  there  is 
not  a  peasant  in  all  my  country  who  is 
not  familiar  with  his  name." 

This  countryman  of  ours,  in  whose 
achievements  I  have  such  a  sturdy  pride, 
died  literally  in  the  harness  in  1879,  and 
every  year  on  the  9th  of  June,  throughout 
all  the  land  of  which  he  was  the  acknow- 
ledged savior,  the  solemn  prayers  of  the 
church  are  offered  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul.  It  may  be  that  he  has  won  a  higher 
fame  than  he  would  if  he  had  lived  to 
make  himself  known  to  the  American 
public  through  the  medium  of  the  lecture 
platform,  but  nevertheless  I  often  wish 

172 


THE  LITER  ART  SHOP 

that  his  renown  in  the  land  of  his  birth 
were  nearer  in  accord  with  his  deserts 
than  it  is. 

I  doubt  if  any  system,  either  literary, 
political,  or  social — unless  it  be  negro 
slavery — has  ever  had  a  fairer  trial  in 
this  country  than  has  that  of  pruning- 
hook  editing,  of  which  I  have  treated  in 
these  pages ;  and  that  system  may  be  re- 
sponsible, in  part,  for  the  fact  that  three 
quarters  of  the  fiction  offered  in  book- 
stores to-day  is  the  work  of  foreign  writ- 
ers, most  of  whom  have  been  reared  in 
the  comparatively  free  and  independent 
literary  atmosphere  of  Great  Britain,  and 
have  always  addressed  their  books  directly 
to  the  public  instead  of  the  editors  of  mag- 
azines. It  is  true  that  Smith  or  Mudie, 
whose  influence  in  the  book-trade  is  al- 
most incalculable,  occasionally  refuse  to 
circulate  a  novel  out  of  consideration  for 
the  feelings  of  the  "  young  person,"  but 
such  a  proceeding  is  not  nearly  as  disas- 
173 


THE  LITEEARY  SHOP 

trous  to  a  writer  as  the  refusal  of  his  man- 
uscript by  all  the  magazines  would  be  to 
an  American.  A  ton  of  manuscript  makes 
no  more  commotion  when  returned  to  its 
authors  than  the  touch  of  a  humming- 
bird on  a  lily-petal ;  but  when  a  book  like 
Esther  Waters  is  cast  out  of  an  English 
circulating  library  it  falls  with  a  crash 
that  is  heard  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  three  kingdoms,  while  the 
author  and  his  friends,  with  a  little  as- 
sistance from  the  author's  enemies,  make 
the  welkin  ring  with  their  cries. 

The  recent  discussion  over  " Trilby" 
and  the  action  of  its  publishers  in  cutting 
out  this  passage  and  pruning  that  have 
given  the  public  a  little  insight  into  the 
methods  in  vogue  in  our  large  literary 
establishments — methods  which  I  have 
tried  to  explain  in  this  book.  The  very 
fact  that  Mr.  Du  Manner's  manuscript 
stood  in  need  of  the  pruning-hook  is,  to 
me,  proof  positive  that  he  never  sat  on 
174 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

the  poets'  bench  in  the  Ledger  office  or 
practised  his  profession  under  the  rule  of 
Dr.  Holland. 

It  may  be  that  at  this  very  moment  a 
great  many  American  story-readers  are 
asking  themselves  why  it  is  that  native 
authors  who  know  their  trade  so  well 
that  the  magazines  will  publish  anything 
that  they  offer  should  be  unable  to  write 
a  serial  equal  to  that  of  a  gray-haired 
novice  like  Mr.  Du  Marnier,  who,  I  will 
wager,  knows  absolutely  nothing  about 
the  immortal  principles  which  are  the 
very  lamps  unto  the  feet  of  his  American 
contemporaries.  I  shudder  to  think  of 
what  the  world  would  have  lost  had  the 
author  of  "  Trilby  "  gone  about  his  work 
with  the  Holland  fetters  on  his  wrists, 
the  fear  of  the  gas-fitter  in  his  heart,  the 
awful  pruning-hook  hanging  by  a  single 
hair  over  his  head,  and  the  ominous 
shadow  of  Robert  Bonner  falling  across 
the  pages  of  his  story. 
175 


THE  LITERAEY  SHOP 

There  are  other  English  writers  who 
have  "  arrived  "  during  the  past  half-doz- 
en years — a  sufficient  number,  indeed,  to 
make  us  feel  that  there  must  be  some 
deep-seated  cause  for  the  comparatively 
slow  progress  which  our  own  literature 
has  made  in  the  same  time. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  fairly  estimate 
the  literary  worth  of  writers  who  have 
been  before  the  public  such  a  short  time, 
especially  when  we  take  into  consideration 
the  wide  difference  in  personal  tastes,  and 
therefore  I  have  sought  the  aid  of  a  num- 
ber of  critical  and  learned  friends  in  the 
preparation  of  a  list  of  writers  which  I 
confess  is  not  exactly  the  one  that  I  would 
print  had  I  consulted  only  my  own  per- 
sonal tastes. 

This  is  the  list  which  I  offer  as  a  result 
of  many  consultations  with  people  who 
are  supposed  to  understand  the  subject: 
J.  M.  Barrie,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  Hall 
Caine,  Rudyard  Kipling,  Conan  Doyle, 
176 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

Barry  Paine,  J.  K.  Jerome,  I.  Zangwill, 
Marie  Corelli,  Quiller  Couch,  S.  R.  Crock- 
ett, Sarah  Grand,  Beatrice  Harraden,  An- 
thony Hope,  and  Stanley  J.  Weyman — 
fifteen  in  all  besides  Mr.  Du  Maurier. 

From  this  catalogue  of  talent  and  ge- 
nius it  is  possible  to  select  ten  whose  posi- 
tion in  letters  is  assured,  although  tastes 
will  differ  as  to  the  names  on  the  last  end 
of  the  list. 

Now  let  us  see  how  many  writers  have 
been  raised  to  maturity  in  the  carefully 
watched  and  over-cultivated  magazine 
soil  during  the  same  period  of  time — say 
half  a  dozen  years.  Can  we  point  to  six- 
teen, or  ten,  or  even  five  who  have  made 
their  way  into  the  great  white  light  with- 
in that  time  ? 

No;  we  have  precisely  one  writer  to 
show  as  the  fruit  of  American  literary  en- 
deavor during  six  years,  and  that  writer 
is  a  woman  who  has  confined  herself — 
and  wisely,  too,  I  suspect — to  the  por- 

177 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

trayal  of  life  and  character  among  the 
New  England  hills  and  villages.  A  nar- 
row field,  it  may  be  said,  but  she  has  sur- 
veyed it  with  the  true  artistic  eye,  and  at 
her  touch  it  has  yielded  truthful,  appreci- 
ative, honest  literature — stories  with  an 
underlying  note  of  sadness  that  rings  true 
as  steel  and  is  a  bit  of  the  very  essence  of 
rural  New  England  life.  Of  course  this 
writer  is  in  an  enviable  position  because 
she  enjoys  all  the  advantages  of  maga- 
zine authorship  and  the  prestige  which 
accompanies  it,  and  is,  to  all  practical 
purposes,  exempt  from  the  ordeal  of  the 
pruning-hook  to  which  other  authors  are 
obliged  to  submit.  I  do  not  say  this  in 
disparagement  of  her  great  talents ;  I  only 
mean  to  say  that  her  stories  all  lie  within 
the  necessary  magazine  limitations,  and 
she  can  write  to  the  veiy  top  of  her  bent 
without  getting  within  gunshot  of  the 
barbed- wire  fences  which  restrict  the  en- 
deavors of  authors  whose  natural  impulse 
178 


THE  L1TEEAEY  SHOP 

it  is  to  work  in  the  deeper  and  broader 
strata  of  humanity. 

I  do  not  deny  that  there  are  several 
bright  and  clever  young  men  and  women 
who  have  done  excellent  literary  work  in 
the  magazines  and  will  undoubtedly  live 
to  do  even  better  in  the  future.  I  know 
of  two  or  three  who  are,  according  to  my 
way  of  thinking,  better  entitled  to  men- 
tion than  some  of  the  English  authors 
whom  I  have  named;  but  the  woman 
whom  I  have  in  mind  is  the  one  recent 
acquisition  to  American  letters,  who  draws 
truthful  pictures  from  a  proper  point  of 
view,  writes  fully  as  well  to-day  as  she  did 
six  years  ago,  and  has,  moreover,  given  us 
one  good  novel.  I  do  not  know  of  a  single 
other  bright  young  American  writer — 
and  very  clever  some  of  them  are,  too — 
of  whom  nearly  as  much  as  this  can  be 
fairly  said. 

If  the  names  of  Hamlin  Garland  or 
Edward  Bellamy  occur  to  any  of  my 
179 


THE  LITERARY  SHOP 

readers  it  should  be  remembered  that 
they  sprang  up  by  the  wayside  and  are 
not  the  product  of  the  rich  magazine  soil. 

In  bringing  my  modest  preachment  to 
a  close,  it  is  with  a  hope  that  my  readers 
will  pardon  any  errors  of  humor  into 
which  I  may  have  fallen,  or  at  least  find 
in  them  a  reasonable  excuse  for  my  ef- 
frontery in  offering  advice  while  I  am 
still  under  ninety-seven  years  of  age.  I 
hope  that  I  have  done  full  justice  to  the 
established  literary  dynasty  which  began 
with  Robert  Bonner  and  of  which  Mr. 
Johnson  is  now  the  acknowledged  head. 

And  let  my  last  word  be  one  of  thank- 
fulness because  that  dynasty  has  at  least 
kept  our  national  literature  clean  —  as 
clean  as  a  whistle  or  a  pipe-stem. 


ISO 


AND  OTHER  TALES 


THE  POETS'  STRIKE. 

IT  was  just  three  o'clock  on  a  warm 
day  in  August,  and  the  deep  silence  that 
prevailed  in  the  Franklin  Square  Prose 
and  Verse  Foundry  indicated  plainly  that 
something  unusual  had  happened.  The 
great  trip-hammer  in  the  basement  was 
silent ;  there  was  no  whir  of  machinery 
on  the  upper  floors ;  and  in  the  vast,  de- 
serted dialect  department  the  busy  file 
was  still.  It  was  only  in  the  business 
office  that  any  signs  of  life  were  visible, 
and  there  the  chiefs  of  the  great  estab- 
lishment were  gathered  in  anxious  con- 
sultation. Their  stern,  determined  faces 
indicated  that  they  had  taken  a  stand  and 
had  resolved  to  maintain  it,  no  matter 
what  might  happen.  From  the  street 
183 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

came  the  faint  sound  of  newsboys  crying 
extras.  By  nightfall  the  tidings  would 
be  carried  to  the  remotest  corners  of  the 
town. 

The  poets  of  the  Franklin  Square  Foun- 
dry had  been  ordered  out  on  strike ! 

Well  might  the  heads  of  the  various 
departments  look  grave,  for  never  before 
in  the  history  of  the  factory  had  there 
been  a  strike  in  its  literary  department. 
Down  in  Pearl  Street  the  poets  were  con- 
gregated in  groups,  talking  over  the  sit- 
uation and  casting  ominous  glances  at 
the  great  window,  through  which  they 
could  faintly  distinguish  the  forms  of 
the  men  against  whose  tyranny  they  had 
rebelled. 

Suddenly  a  tall  form  loomed  up  in  the 
centre  of  a  large  group  of  excited  men. 
It  was  a  master  poet  who  had  climbed 
up  on  some  boxes  to  address  his  com- 
rades ;  and  they  grew  quiet  and  closed  in 
about  him  to  hear  his  words. 
184 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"Prosers,  rhymesters,  and  dialectists," 
exclaimed  the  master  poet,  "  the  time  has 
come  for  us  to  make  a  stand  against  the 
oppression  of  those  who  call  themselves 
our  masters.  The  time  has  come  for  the 
men  who  toil  day  after  day  in  yonder 
tall  factory  to  denounce  the  infamous 
system  by  which  they  are  defrauded  of 
the  greater  part  of  their  wretched  pit- 
tance. You  know,  of  course,  that  I  am 
speaking  of  the  ruinous  competition  of 
scab  or  non-union  labor.  See  that  cart ! " 
he  cried,  pointing  to  a  square,  one-horse 
vehicle,  similar  to  those  employed  in  the 
delivery  of  coal,  which  had  been  backed 
up  against  the  curb  in  front  of  the  fac- 
tory. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  cart  con- 
tains? See  those  men  remove  the  iron 
scuttle  on  the  sidewalk,  and  listen  to  the 
roar  and  rumble  as  the  cart  discharges 
its  contents  into  the  cellar  beneath  the 
pavement !  Is  that  coal  they  are  putting 
185 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

in  with  which  to  feed  the  tireless  engine 
that  furnishes  motive  power  to  the  fac- 
tory ?  No,  my  friends  j  that  is  a  load  of 
jokes  for  the  back  page  of  Harper's  Bazar, 
collected  from  the  sweating-shops  about 
Washington  Square  and  Ninth  Street. 
Do  those  jokes  bear  the  union  label? 
They  do  not.  Many  of  them,  no  doubt, 
are  made  by  Italians  and  Chinese,  to 
the  shame  and  degradation  of  our  call- 
ing." 

The  master  poet's  words  were  received 
with  a  howl  of  rage  that  reached  the  ears 
of  the  men  who  were  closeted  in  the  busi- 
ness office,  and  brought  a  pallor  to  their 
stern,  set  faces. 

"There  is  no  time  to  be  lost!"  ex- 
claimed one  of  the  firm;  "that  yell  of 
defiance  convinces  me  that  any  attempt 
to  introduce  non-union  poets  would  pre- 
cipitate a  riot.  It  will  not  be  safe  to 
do  it  unless  we  are  prepared  for  the 
worst." 

186 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"For  my  part,"  said  Mr.  Harry  Har- 
per, "  I  believe  that  it  would  be  a  good 
policy  for  us  to  introduce  machinery  at 
once,  and  get  rid  of  those  poets,  who  are 
forever  making  new  demands  on  us.  The 
Century  people  have  had  machines  in 
operation  for  some  time  past,  and  have 
found  them  very  satisfactory.  We  must 
admit  that  a  great  deal  of  their  poetry  is 
as  good  as  our  hand-made  verses." 

"  Do  you  know,"  cried  Mr.  Alden,  "  that 
that  Chicago  machine  they  put  in  some 
time  ago  is  simply  one  of  Armour's  old 
sausage-mills  remodeled?  It  is  the  in- 
vention of  a  man  named  Fuller,  who  two 
years  ago  was  merely  an  able-bodied 
workman  in  the  serial  shops.  It  is  really 
a  very  ingenious  piece  of  mechanism, 
and  when  you  think  that  they  throw  a 
quantity  of  hoofs,  hair,  and  other  waste 
particles  from  the  Chicago  stock-yards 
into  a  hopper,  and  convert  them  into  a 
French  or  Italian  serial  story  of  firm,  fine 
187 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

texture — well,  making  a  silk  purse  out  of 
a  sow's  ear  is  nothing  to  it." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  head  of  the  firm, 
rising  as  he  spoke,  and  taking  from  the 
desk  beside  him  some  large  cardboard 
signs,  "  I  do  not  propose  to  have  my  own 
workmen  dictate  to  me.  I  am  going  to 
hang  these  signs  on  our  front  door  and 
give  employment  to  whomever  may  apply 
for  it."  The  signs  were  thus  inscribed : 


HANDS  WANTED 

ON 
SHOET  STORIES. 


GIELS  WANTED 

FOR  THE 

BAZAR  AND   YOUNG   PEOPLE. 

188 


AND  OTHER  TALES 


STEADY  EMPLOYMENT 

FOE 

SOBER,  INDUSTRIOUS  POETS. 

TWO  RHYMES  TO  THE  QUATRAIN. 


But  before  Mr.  Harper  could  carry  out 
his  resolution,  a  young  man,  clad  in  the 
ordinary  working-garb  of  a  poet,  hur- 
riedly entered  the  office,  and,  placing  him- 
self before  the  chief,  exclaimed : 

"  Stop,  sir,  before  it  is  too  late ! a 

"And  who  are  you,  sir  ? "  demanded  the 
amazed  publisher. 

"I  am  Henry  Rondeau,"  replied  the 
young  man,  "  and  although  I  am  only  a 
humble,  laboring  poet,  I  feel  that  I  can 
be  of  assistance  to  you  to-day.  I  have  a 
grateful  heart,  and  cannot  forget  your 
kindness  to  me  when  I  was  unfortunate." 

"Kindness?  I  confess  that  I  do  not 
remember  any — "  began  Mr.  Harper ;  but 

189 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

the  poet  interrupted  him  with:  "Last 
summer,  sir,  when  I  got  my  fingers  frost- 
bitten by  being  permitted  to  shake  hands 
with  Mr.  Harry  Harper,  you  not  only 
allowed  me  half-pay,  but  gave  my  poor 
idiot  sister  a  job  in  the  factory  as  a  reader 
of  manuscript,  thus  enabling  us  to  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door  until  I  was  able 
to  use  a  scanning-rule  again." 

"  And  a  most  invaluable  assistant  she 
is,  too,"  cried  Mr.  Alden,  warmly ;  "  she 
selects  all  the  short  stories  for  the  maga- 
zine, and  I  doubt  if  you  could  find,  even 
in  the  office  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  any 
one  with  such  keen  perceptions  of  what 
the  public  do  not  want  as  Susan  Rondeau, 
the  idiot  reader  of  Franklin  Square." 

At  this  moment  a  hoarse  yell  arose  from 
the  crowd  of  strikers  beneath  the  window, 
and  was  borne  to  the  ears  of  those  who 
were  gathered  in  the  business  office. 

"What  does  that  noise  mean?"  de- 
manded the  senior  partner,  an  angry 
190 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

flush  suffusing  his  cheek.  "Do  they 
think  they  can  frighten  me  with  yells 
and  threats  of  violence  ?  I  will  hang  out 
these  signs,  and  bid  them  do  their  worst ! " 

"  Stop !  I  implore  you,  stop !  "  cried 
Henry  Rondeau,  as  he  threw  himself  be- 
fore his  chief.  "  The  sight  of  those  signs 
would  madden  them,  and  the  counsel  of 
the  cooler  heads,  which  has  thus  far  con- 
trolled them,  would  be  swept  away  in  a 
moment.  And  then — the  deluge !  " 

"  But  we  do  not  fear  even  death,"  cried 
the  courageous  publisher. 

"Mr.  Harper,"  continued  the  young 
workman,  earnestly,  "at  this  very  mo- 
ment the  master  poet  is  urging  them  to 
desperate  measures.  He  has  already  in  his 
possession  the  address  and  dinner-hour  of 
every  gentleman  in  this  room,  and —  " 

"  Well,  even  if  dynamite  is  to  be  used — " 

"And,"  pursued  Henry  Rondeau,  "he 
has  threatened  to  place  the  list  in  the 
hands  of  Stephen  Masset !  " 

191 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"Merciful  heavens ! "  exclaimed  the  vet- 
eran publisher,  as  he  sank,  pale  and  trem- 
bling, in  his  easy-chair,  while  his  associates 
wrung  their  hands  in  bitter  despair ;  "  can 
nothing  be  done  to  prevent  it  ? " 

"Yes,"  cried  the  young  working-man. 
"  Accept  the  offer  of  the  Poets'  Union  to 
make  a  new  sliding-scale.  Make  a  few 
slight  concessions  to  the  men,  and  they 
will  meet  you  half-way.  Put  emery  wheels 
in  the  dialect  shop  instead  of  the  old- 
fashioned  cross-cut  files  and  sandpaper 
that  now  take  up  so  much  of  the  men's 
time.  Let  one  rhyme  to  the  quatrain  be 
sufficient  at  the  metrical  benches,  and — it 
is  a  little  thing,  but  it  counts — buy  some 
tickets  for  the  poets'  picnic  and  sum- 
mer-night's festival  at  Snoozer's  Grove, 
which  takes  place  next  Monday  afternoon 
and  evening." 

Henry  Rondeau's  advice  was  taken,  and 
to-day  the  great  trip-hammer  is  at  work 
in  the  basement  of  the  foundry,  and  the 
192 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

poets  and  prose-writers  are  busy  at  their 
benches  on  the  upper  floors.  The  master 
poet  is  at  work  among  the  rest,  and  some- 
times he  chuckles  as  he  thinks  of  the 
concessions  that  were  wrung  from  the 
foundry-owners  by  the  great  August 
strike.  But  little  does  the  master  poet 
dream  of  the  vengeance  that  awaits  him 
— of  the  awful  midnight  oath  taken  by 
Joseph  Harper  after  he  had  signed  the 
treaty  with  his  employees. 

Not  until  after  death  will  that  oath  be 
fulfilled.  Not  until  the  members  of  the 
Poets'  Union  have  borne  the  remains  of 
their  chief  to  Calvary  with  a  following  as 
numerous  as  that  which  accompanies  the 
deceased  aunt  of  a  Broadway  janitor  to 
her  last  resting-place — not  until  then  will 
the  surviving  members  of  the  firm  carry 
out  the  sacred  trust  imposed  upon  them. 

They  will  collect  the  poems  of  the  mas- 
ter poet  and  publish  them  in  a  mouse-col- 
ored volume — edited  ly  Arthur  Stedman. 

193 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

ANCIENT  FORMS  OF  AMUSEMENT. 

(From  the  Hypnotic   Gazette,  January  1, 
A.D.  2203.) 

WORKMEN  employed  on  the  mesmeric 
dredge  near  what  was  in  old  times  the 
bed  of  the  Harlem  River  discovered  yes- 
terday a  leaden  box  in  which  was  the 
following  manuscript,  which  gives  us  a 
vivid  idea  of  the  crude  condition  of  the 
drama  toward  the  close  of  the  nineteenth 
century : 

"FUN  ON  THE  ROOF." 
Farce  Comedy  in  Three  Acts. 
ACT 

SCENE.    A  garden  with  practicable  gate 
E.  U.  E. 

SPAEKLE  MC!NTYRE   (entering  through 
gate).    Well,  this  is  a  pretty  state  of  af- 
fairs !     Rosanna  Harefoot  lived  only  for 
194 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

me  until  that  theatrical  troupe  came  to 
town ;  but  now  she's  so  stuck  on  singing 
and  dancing  and  letting  those  actor  men 
make  love  to  her  that  I  can't  get  a  mo- 
ment with  her.  Hello !  here  comes  the 
whole  company.  I  guess  they're  going  to 
rehearse  here.  I'll  hide  behind  this  tree 
and  watch  them  do  their  acts. 

Enter  company  of  PLAYERS. 

FIRST  PLAYER.  Well,  this  is  a  hot 
day ;  but  while  we're  trying  to  keep  cool 
Miss  Kitty  Socks  will  sing  "  Under  the 
Daisies." 

(Specialties  by  the  entire  company.) 

FIRST  PLAYER.    Well,  we'd  better  hurry 
away  down  the  street,  or  else  we'll  be  late. 
[Exeunt  OMNES. 

SPARKLE  MC!NTYRE  (emerging  from  be- 
hind tree).     That  looks  easy  enough.     I 
guess  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  myself. 
(Specialties.) 

195 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

FIRST  PLAYER  (entering  with  company}. 
Now  that  rehearsal  is  over,  we'll  have  a 
little  fun  for  a  few  moments. 

SPARKLE  (aside) .    Rosanna  will  be  mine 

yet. 

(Grand  Finale.* 

CURTAIN. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE.  Parlor  of  SPARKLE  MC!NTYRE'S 
house;  SPARKLE  discovered  seated  at  table 
with  brilliant  dressing-gown  on. 

SPARKLE.  I  invited  all  that  theatrical 
company  to  spend  the  evening  with  me ; 
but  I'm  afraid  they  won't  come.  I  just 
wanted  to  surprise  them  with  that  new 
song  and  dance  of  mine.  Ah !  here  they 
come  now. 

Enter  THEATRICAL  COMPANY. 
FIRST  PLAYER.    We  are  a  little  late, 
Mr.  Mclntyre,  but  the  fact  is  I  had  to  go 
to  the  steamer  to  meet  some  friends  of 
196 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

mine  who  were  coming  over  to  try  their 
luck  in  glorious  America ;  and  as  they're 
all  perfect  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  took 
the  liberty  of  bringing  them  along.  Al- 
low me  to  introduce  them  to  you:  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lorenzo  Sirocco  and  the  Miss 
Siroccos  from  the  Royal  Alhambra  in 
Rooshy. 

SPAEKLE.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I'm 
pleased  to  meet  you ;  and  now,  if  you'll 
favor  .us  with  an  act,  we'll  be  greatly 
obliged. 

(Specialties  by  everybody,  and  Finale.) 
CURTAIN. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE.    Same  as  Act  I. 
Enter  ROSANNA. 

ROSANNA.     This   is    the  very   garden 
where  I  used  to  meet  my  own  true  Spar- 
kle.    In  fact,  it's  right  here  that  he  used 
to  spark  me.    Well,  while  I'm  feeling  so 
i97 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

downhearted,  I'll  do  a  little  dance  just  to 
cheer  myself  up. 

(Specialties  by  ROSANNA., 

SPARKLE  (entering}.  What!  you  here, 
Rosanna  ?  Then  you  must  love  me. 

ROSANNA.    Yes,  Sparkle,  I  do. 

SPARKLE  (embracing  her).  Then,  dar- 
ling, we  will  be  married  this  very  day. 
Call  the  neighbors  all  in,  and  we  will  sing, 
dance,  and  be  merry. 

Enter  COMPANY. 

(Specialties.) 

CURTAIN. 


198 


THE  SOBER,  INDUSTRIOUS  POET, 

AND  HOW  HE  FARED  AT  EASTER-TIME. 

"  ALAS,  Mary !  "  exclaimed  William 
Sonnet,  as  he  -entered  his  neat  but  hum- 
ble tenement  apartment  a  few  days  before 
the  close  of  Lent,  "  I  fear  that  our  Pfingst 
holiday  this  year  will  be  anything  but  a 
merry  one.  My  employers  have  notified 
me  that  if  they  receive  any  more  com- 
plaints of  the  goods  from  my  department 
they  will  give  me  the  sack." 

William  Sonnet  was  certainly  playing 
in  hard  luck,  although  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  in  the  whole  of  Jersey  City  a 
more  industrious,  sober  young  poet,  or  a 
more  devoted  husband  and  father.  For 
nine  years  he  had  been  employed  in  the 
199 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Empire  Prose  and  Verse  Foundry,  the 
largest  literary  establishment  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hackensack,  where  by  sheer  force 
of  sobriety  and  industry  he  had  risen  from 
the  humble  position  of  cash-boy  at  the 
hexameter  counter  to  that  of  foreman  of 
the  dialect  floor,  where  forty-five  hands 
were  kept  constantly  employed  on  prose 
and  verse.  During  these  years  his  rela- 
tions with  his  employers,  Messrs.  Rime 
&  Reeson,  had  been  of  the  pleasantest 
nature  until  about  six  months  previous 
to  the  opening  of  this  story,  when  they 
began — unjustly,  as  it  seemed  to  him — 
to  find  fault  with  the  goods  turned  out  by 
his  department.  There  were  complaints 
received  at  the  office  every  day,  they  said, 
of  both  the  dialect  stories  and  verses  that 
bore  the  Empire  brand. 

The  Century  Magazine  had  returned  a 

large  invoice  of  hand-sewed  negro  dialect 

verses  of  the  "Befoh  de  Wah"  variety, 

and  a  syndicate  which  supplied  the  West- 

200 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

ern  market  had  canceled  all  its  spring 
orders  on  the  ground  that  the  dialect 
goods  had  for  some  reason  or  other  fallen 
far  below  the  standard  maintained  in  the 
other  departments  of  the  Empire  Foun- 
dry. William  was  utterly  unable  to  ac- 
count for  this  change  in  the  quality  of 
the  manuscript  prepared  on  his  floor,  and 
as  he  sat  with  his  bowed  head  resting  on 
his  toil-hardened  hand,  and  the  sweat  and 
grime  of  honest  labor  on  his  brow,  he 
looked,  indeed,  the  very  picture  of  dejec- 
tion. 

"  "William,"  said  his  wife,  as  she  placed 
a  caressing  hand  on  his  forehead,  "yon 
have  enemies  in  the  foundry  whom  you 
do  not  suspect.  You  must  know  that 
when  you  wooed  and  won  me  a  year  ago 
I  had  been  courted  by  no  less  than  four 
different  poets  who  at  that  time  were 
employed  at  the  Eagle  Verse  Works  in 
Newark,  but  have  since  found  positions 
with  Messrs.  Rime  &  Reeson.  I  will  not 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

deny,  William,  that  I  toyed  with  the  affec- 
tions of  those  poets,  but  it  was  because  I 
deemed  them  as  frivolous  as  myself,  and 
when  they  went  from  my  presence  with 
angry  threats  on  their  lips  I  laughed  in 
merry  glee.  But  when  I  saw  them  stand- 
ing together  on  street-corners,  with  their 
heads  together  in  earnest  conversation,  I 
grew  sick  at  heart,  for  I  knew  it  boded 
us  no  good.  Be  warned,  William,  by  my 
words." 

The  next  day,  when  the  whistle  blew  at 
noon,  William  Sonnet  ate  his  dinner  from 
his  tin  pail  as  usual ;  but  then,  instead  of 
going  out  into  the  street  to  play  baseball 
with  the  poets  from  the  adjacent  facto- 
ries, as  the  Empire  Foundry  employees 
generally  did,  he  took  a  quiet  stroll 
through  the  whole  establishment,  under 
the  pretense  of  looking  for  an  envoy 
that  had  been  knocked  off  the  end  of  a 
ballade. 

In  the  packing-department  was  a  large 
202 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

consignment  of  goods  from  his  floor  ready 
for  shipment,  and  he  stopped  to  examine 
the  burr  of  a  Scotch  magazine  story  to 
make  sure  that  it  had  not  been  rubbed  off 
by  carelessness.  What  was  his  surprise 
to  find  that  the  dialect,  which  he  himself 
had  gone  over  with  a  cross-cut  file  that 
very  morning,  was  now  worn  completely 
smooth  by  contact  with  an  emery-wheel ! 
He  replaced  the  story  carefully  in  the 
fine  sawdust  in  which  it  was  packed,  and 
then  examined  the  other  goods.  They 
had  not  yet  been  touched,  but  it  was 
evident  to  him  that  the  miscreants  fully 
intended  to  finish  the  destructive  work 
which  they  had  only  had  time  to  begin. 
Returning  to  his  own  bench,  he  passed 
two  or  three  poets  who  were  talking 
earnestly  together,  and  by  straining  his 
ears  he  heard  one  of  them  whisper : 

"We'll  finish  the  job  to-night.  Meet 
me  at  ten." 

That  was  enough  for  William  Sonnet. 

203 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

He  determined,  without  delay,  what  course 
to  pursue. 

At  half-past  nine  that  evening,  three 
mysterious  figures  draped  in  black  cloaks 
entered  the  Empire  Prose  and  Verse 
Foundry  by  a  side  door.  William  Son- 
net was  one  of  the  three,  and  the  others 
were  his  employers,  Messrs.  Rime  &  Ree- 
son.  He  led  them  to  a  place  of  conceal- 
ment which  commanded  a  full  view  of 
the  packing-room.  Before  long  stealthy 
footsteps  were  heard,  and  the  four  con- 
spirators entered. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  quartet, 
as  he  threw  the  light  from  his  dark  lan- 
tern on  the  sullen  faces  of  his  compan- 
ions; "you  all  know  why  we  are  here. 
This  night  we  will  complete  William  Son- 
net's ruin,  and  Easter  Monday  will  find 
him  hunting  for  work  in  Paterson  and 
Newark,  and  hunting  in  vain.  Why  is  he 
foreman  of  the  dialect  department,  while 
we  toil  at  the  bench  for  a  mere  crust? 

204 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Mary  Birdseye  is  now  his  bride;  but 
when  we  wooed  her  we  were  rejected  like 
our  own  poems." 

"And  that,  too,  although  we  inclosed 
no  postage,"  retorted  the  second  poet,  bit- 
terly. 

"Now  to  work,"  continued  the  first 
speaker,  as  he  stooped  to  examine  some 
goods  on  the  floor.  "  What  have  we  here  ? 
A  serial  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly  f  Well, 
we'll  soon  fix  that,"  and  in  another  mo- 
ment he  had  injected  a  quantity  of  ginger 
into  the  story,  ruining  it  completely. 
Then  the  work  of  destruction  went  on, 
while  Messrs.  Rime  &  Reeson  watched 
the  vandals  with  horror  depicted  on  their 
faces.  A  pan  of  sweepings  from  the 
humorous  department,  designed  for  Har- 
per's "Editor's  Drawer"  and  the  Bazar, 
was  thrown  away,  and  real  funny  jokes 
substituted  for  them.  A  page  article  for 
the  Sunday  supplement  of  a  New  York 
daily,  entitled  "Millionaires  who  have 
205 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Gold  Filling  in  their  Teeth,"  embellished 
with  cuts  of  twenty  different  jaws,  was 
thrown  out,  and  an  article  on  "  Jerusalem 
the  Golden,"  ordered  by  the  Whited  Sepul- 
chre, substituted. 

Messrs.  Rime  &  Reeson  could  control 
themselves  no  longer.  Stacked  against 
the  wall  like  a  woodpile  were  the  twelve 
instalments  of  a  Century  serial  by  Amelia 
E.  Barr,  which  had  been  sawed  into  the 
proper  lengths  that  afternoon.  Seizing 
one  of  these  apiece,  the  three  men  made 
a  sudden  onslaught  on  the  miscreants  and 
beat  them  into  insensibility.  Then  they 
bound  them  securely  and  delivered  them 
over  to  the  tormentors. 

As  for  honest  William  Sonnet,  he  was 
made  foreman  of  the  whole  foundry ;  and 
his  wife,  who  was  a  fashion- writer,  and 
therefore  never  fit  to  be  seen,  received  a 
present  of  two  beautiful  new  tailor-made 
dresses,  which  fitted  her  so  well  that  no 
one  recognized  her,  and  she  opened  a  new 

206 


OTHER    TALES 

line   of  credit  at  all  the   stores  in  the 
neighborhood. 

It  was  a  happy  family  that  sat  down  to 
the  Easter  dinner  in  William  Sonnet's 
modest  home;  and  to  make  their  joy 
complete,  before  the  repast  was  ended  an 
envelope  arrived  from  William's  grateful 
employers  containing  an  appointment  for 
his  bedridden  mother-in-law  as  reader 
for  a  large  publishing-house. 


207 


THE   TWO   BROTHERS; 

OB,  PLUCKED  FEOM  THE  BURNING. 

"No,  Herbert,  I  would  advise  you  to 
tear  up  that  card  and  put  temptation  away 
from  you.  If  you  yield  now  you  will 
weaken  your  moral  character,  and  you  will 
have  less  strength  to  resist  another  time." 

The  speaker,  a  young  man  of  grave, 
honest  aspect,  was  standing  with  his  hand 
laid  in  a  kindly  way  on  his  younger  broth- 
er's shoulder.  The  latter,  whose  face 
was  cast  in  a  more  delicate  and  a  weaker 
mould,  stood  irresolutely  twirling  in  his 
hand  a  card  of  invitation  to  an  afternoon 
tea. 

"  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  will  do  just 
for  this  one  time,"  he  said,  pettishly. 
208 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

"  You're  always  preaching  about  tempta- 
tion, John ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  think  it's 
my  duty  as  a  writer  to  see  a  little  of  every 
side  of  life.  I  want  to  write  a  novel  some 
day  and  to  have  one  of  the  scenes  laid  at 
a  kettledrum.  How  can  I  describe  one 
unless  I  see  it  myself  ? " 

"  I  hope,  Herbert,"  said  the  elder  broth- 
er, mildly,  "  that  you  will  never  sink  so 
low  as  to  write  a  New  York  Society  novel ; 
but  that  is  surely  what  you  will  come  to 
if  you  abandon  yourself  to  the  pernicious 
habit  of  attending  afternoon  teas.  Do 
you  remember  your  old  playfellow,  "Walter 
Weakfish?  It  is  only  three  years  since 
he  began  to  sip  tea  at  kettledrums.  At 
that  time  he  was  considered  one  of  the 
very  best  reporters  in  the  city,  while  at 
the  poker  table  he  commanded  universal 
respect.  You  know,  of  course,  that  his 
downward  career  has  been  very  rapid 
since  his  first  fall,  and  that  he  has 
sounded  every  depth  of  ignominy  and 

209 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

shame;  but  do  you  know  where  he  is 
now?" 

"  I  heard  some  time  ago,"  replied  Her- 
bert, "that  he  had  become  an  habitual 
frequenter  of  the  most  exclusive  musical 
circles  in  Boston,  and  that — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  the  elder ;  "  that  was 
a  malicious  report.  It  is  true  that  he 
once  attended  an  organ  recital,  but  that 
was  all.  At  present  he  is  conducting, 
over  his  own  signature,  a  department  en- 
titled '  Old  Uncle  Squaretoes's  Half -hour 
Chats  with  the  Little  Folks/  in  a  Phila- 
delphia paper." 

"  Merciful  heavens !  "  cried  Herbert ;  "  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as  that ;  but  can 
nothing  be  done  to  save  him?" 

"  I  fear  not,"  replied  the  elder  brother, 
sadly ;  "  and  now,  Herbert,  I  shall  say  no 
more.  You  must  choose  your  own  course ; 
but  remember  that  our  poker  club  meets 
to-night  in  the  room  over  Cassidy's  Ex- 
change, and  you  must — " 
210 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"  Yes,  and  drop  another  double  X,"  ex- 
claimed Herbert,  bitterly. 

"And  learn  the  great  lesson  of  life," 
said  John,  "  that  in  this  vale  of  tears  the 
hand  that  shapes  our  destiny  will  ofttimes 
beat  three  of  a  kind." 

And  with  these  impressive  words  John 
Dovetail  departed,  leaving  his  brother 
still  twirling  the  engraved  card  between 
his  fingers  and  hesitating. 

"  Pshaw !  "  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "  I 
don't  care  what  John  says.  I'm  sick  of 
his  preaching,  anyhow;  and  besides  I'm 
not  going  to  get  the  Society  habit  fastened 
on  me  through  just  one  kettledrum !  I'll 
go  there  just  to  see  what  it's  like." 
***** 

That  afternoon  Herbert  tasted  of  the 
forbidden  intoxicant  of  feminine  flattery, 
drank  five  cups  of  tea,  and  ate  four  pieces 
of  sticky  cake.  He  was  introduced  to  a 
leader  of  the  Chromo  Literary  Set,  who 
told  him  that  she  "adored  clever  men," 
211 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

and  begged  him  to  come  to  her  next  Sun- 
day evening  reception.  Then  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  patronized  by  a  dude  who 
copied  letters  in  a  broker's  office  by  day 
and  led  the  cotillion  by  night;  and  he 
had  not  been  in  the  drawing-room  half  an 
hour  before  his  mind  became  affected  by 
the  "  Society  talk  "  going  on  about  him 
to  such  a  degree  that  he  found  himself 
chuckling  in  a  knowing  manner  at  an 
idiotic  stoiy  about  Ollie  Winkletree,  of 
the  Simian  Club. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  warning 
words  of  his  brother  John  suddenly  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  realized  that  it  was 
time  to  go. 

He  had  no  appetite  for  dinner  that 
night — the  tea  and  the  sticky  cake  had 
done  their  work ;  and  instead  of  joining 
the  poker  class  over  Cassidy's  Exchange, 
he  sat  down  by  the  fire  to  brood  over  the 
new  life  that  was  opening  before  him. 
The  Society  bee — the  most  malevolent 
212 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

insect  in  the  world's  hive — had  stung 
him  under  his  bonnet,  the  poison  was 
already  in  his  veins,  and  when  John 
returned  at  midnight  from  the  poker 
meeting  his  brother  addressed  hhn  as 
"  deah  boy." 

Now  John  Dovetail  had  always  looked 
after  his  younger  brother  with  the  same 
solicitude  that  he  would  have  bestowed 
upon  a  helpless  child,  and  to-night  there 
was  an  anxious  look  in  his  face  as  he 
seated  himself  by  the  open  fire  and  drew 
from  his  vest-pocket  the  cigar  which  he 
had  won  by  throwing  dice  with  Cassidy 
at  the  Exchange.  He  was  prepared  to 
enjoy  himself  for  a  half-hour  in  that 
peace  of  mind  which  an  easy  conscience 
alone  can  give.  His  evening  had  been 
well  spent — thanks  to  that  merciful  dis- 
pensation which  has  ordained  that  even 
the  vilest  sinner  shall  fill  a  bobtail  flush 
once  in  a  while — and  yet,  as  he  sat  there 
before  the  glowing  embers,  dark 
213 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

givings  filled  his  mind.  Older  than  his 
brother  by  fully  four  years,  and  of  in- 
finitely wider  experience  and  knowledge 
of  the  world,  he  knew  only  too  well  the 
danger  that  lurked  in  the  leaves  of  the 
five-o'clock  tea. 

"  Alas !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  hear 
that  the  Swelled  Head  is  very  prevalent 
this  winter.  It  is  contagious,  and  there 
is  no  place — not  even  an  amateur  theat- 
rical company — where  one  is  so  sure  to 
be  exposed  to  it  as  at  a  kettledrum. 
Suppose,  after  my  years  of  watchful  care, 
my  poor  brother  were  to  be  taken  down 

with  it ! » 

***** 

The  weeks  rolled  on,  and  Herbert, 
having  once  yielded  to  temptation,  soon 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  control  his 
appetite  for  Society  functions.  Not  only 
had  he  formed  as  undesirable  a  list  of 
acquaintances  as  he  could  have  made  by 
heading  the  cotillion  for  three  seasons, 

214 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

but  he  even  had  the  temerity  to  tell  his 
brother  John — whose  life  was  still  one 
of  noble  purpose  and  lofty  endeavor — 
that  he  wondered  how  he  could  spend 
all  his  evenings  playing  poker  in  the 
room  over  Cassidy's  Exchange,  instead 
of— 

"  Instead  of  what,  Herbert  ?  "•  demanded 
John,  in  clear,  ringing  accents.  "  Instead 
of  doing  as  you  have  been  doing  ever 
since  you  took  your  first  plunge  into  the 
maelstrom  of  tea  and  cake  and  lemonade 
that  is  fast  whirling  you  to  destruction  ? 
No,  Herbert,  I  have  watched  you  day  by 
day,  and  I  have  noted  the  change  that 
has  gradually  come  over  you.  For  weeks 
past  you  have  been  gradually  growing 
apart  from  me  and  from  your  old-time 
associates,  and  have  affiliated  yourself 
with  a  class  of  people  who  are  far  beneath 
you.  Where  were  you  last  night  at  the 
hour  when  you  should  have  been  opening 
jack-pots  in  the  room  over  Cassidy's  Ex- 
215 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

change  ?  You  were  up-town  skipping  the 
tralaloo." 

Herbert  started  and  grew  pale.  "  How 
did  you  find  that  out  ? "  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"And  whose  tralaloo  were  you  skip- 
ping ? "  continued  John,  sternly,  without 
heeding  the  interruption.  "You  were 
tralalooing  with  the  De  Sneides  of  Steenth 
Street,  and  you  dare  not  deny  it !  " 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  the  younger  broth- 
er, "  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  that.  Isn't 
the  De  Sneide  family  all  right?" 

John  Dovetail's  clear,  honest  eyes  blazed 
with  anger.  Then  with  a  great  effort 
he  controlled  himself,  and  went  on  in  a 
voice  which  trembled  a  little  in  spite  of 
him. 

"  All  right  ?  Herbert  Dovetail,  do  you 
dare  to  stand  before  me  and  to  talk  about 
the  De  Sneides  being  all  right,  when  you 
yourself  told  me  that  they  concocted  from 
a  half -pint  of  Santa  Cruz  rum — a  half- 
pint,  mind  you — a  beverage  which  they 
216 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

served  to  over  one  hundred  human  souls  ? 
And  did  they  not  add  to  this  crime  that 
of  blasphemy,  by  calling  it  punch  ?  O 
Herbert !  Do  you  know  what  will  hap- 
pen if  you  keep  on  in  the  path  which  you 
have  chosen  ?  You  will  become  the  victim 
of  that  awful  form  of  paresis  known  as 
the  Swelled  Head.  Already  I  have  noticed 
symptoms  of  it  in  you." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  cried  Herbert,  impa- 
tiently; "just  as  soon  as  a  man  begins 
to  go  into  Society  a  little  you  say  he's  got 
the  Swelled  Head.  It's  simply  because 
you're  jealous  of  my  success — but  what's 
the  matter,  John  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

For  his  brother  was  leaning  against 
the  table,  his  hand  pressed  to  his  heart 
and  his  face  white  with  an  awful  fear. 

"  Merciful  heavens !  "  John  exclaimed ; 
"  a  sure  and  unfailing  sign ;  the  poor  boy 
is  stricken  already  and  does  not  know  it. 

But  he  shall  be  saved ! " 

***** 

217 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

One  night  John  persuaded  his  brother 
to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  poker  class,  by 
telling  him  that  two  German  gentlemen 
who  had  played  the  game  just  enough  to 
think  they  knew  it  all  were  going  to  be 
present. 

Herbert  accepted  the  invitation  chiefly 
because  he  knew  he  would  not  meet  any 
one  he  had  borrowed  money  from,  and 
was  given  a  kindly  welcome  by  his  old 
associates,  although,  owing  to  the  pecu- 
liar nature  of  his  disease,  he  had  failed  to 
recognize  several  of  them  when  he  met 
them  in  the  street  the  week  before. 

To  be  sure,  he  cast  a  slight  gloom  over 
the  company  by  calling  for  sherry  when 
the  rest  of  the  company  were  drinking 
the  old  stuff;  but  that  was  pardoned 
because  of  his  unfortunate  tea-drinking 
propensities,  and  the  game  went  on  mer- 
rily. 

Something  of  the  old  light  came  back 
into  the  boy's  eye  as  the  pile  of  chips  in 
218 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

front  of  him  began  to  grow  apace;  and 
the  old  glad  smile  lit  up  his  face  once 
more  as  Baron  Snoozer  laid  down  two  big 
pair  only  to  be  confronted  by  Herbert's 
three  little  fellows. 

And  yet  still  he  called  for  sherry. 

But  it  is  always  the  unexpected  that 
happens.  Just  as  the  game  broke  up  the 
waiter  informed  John  Dovetail  that  there 
was  a  gentleman  down-stairs  who  wished 
to  see  him. 

"  Show  him  up !  "  cried  John,  pleasantly, 
as  he  cashed  in  his  chips. 

The  stranger  appeared  and  John  arose 
to  greet  him.  He  wore  a. large  chrysan- 
themum in  his  buttonhole  and  held  a 
macaroon  in  his  hand,  which  he  nibbled 
from  time  to  time.  His  make-up  was 
that  of  a  dude. 

"  You  do  not  know  me,  I  fear,"  he  said 

to  John.     "  I  am  sadly  changed,  I  know ; 

but  the  time  was,  gentlemen,  when  I  sat 

at  this  very  table ;  and,  oh,  how  I  would 

219 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

have  enjoyed  a  night  like  this !  "  he  added, 
glancing  significantly  at  the  rueful  faces 
of  the  two  German  gentlemen,  who  were 
turning  their  pockets  inside  out. 

All  the  members  of  the  club  were  now 
listening  with  intense  interest ;  and  John 
began  with,  "Your  face,  sir,  seems 
strangely  familiar — " 

"Wait,"  said  the  visitor,  with  a  sad 
smile,  "until  you  hear  my  story.  Once, 
as  I  said  before,  I  sat  in  this  very  game 
nearly  every  night ;  but  now  what  am  I  ? 
One  day — it  was  five  years  ago — some 
fiend  incarnate  led  me  all  unknowing  to  a 
reception  in  an  artist's  studio.  Tea  was 
ordered — I  partook  of  it  and  was  lost. 
Since  then  I  have  gone  down,  down, 
down;  and  to-morrow  I  leave  this  city 
forever.  There  is  but  one  thing  left  for 
me  to  do.  You  will  see  me  no  more  after 
to-night.  Do  none  of  you  remember 
Walter  Weakfish?" 

"Walter    Weakfish!"    gasped    John. 

220 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"Why,   I  thought  you  were  in  Phila- 
delphia, doing  the  'Old  Uncle' — " 

"  No,"  replied  the  unhappy  young  man, 
"  I  have  been  worse  than  that.  I  have 
been  a  Society  reporter.  Yes,  it  is  I  who 
have  written  about  the  lovely  '  Spriggie ' 
Stone  and  the  queenly  Mrs.  'Jack7  Astor- 
bilt,  who  wore  a  passementerie  of  real 
lace  down  the  front  breadth  of  her  moire 
antique  gown.  I  wrote  about  those  peo- 
ple so  much  that  finally  I  imagined  that 
I  knew  them;  and  then  I  borrowed 
money  from  people  who  did  know  them, 
and  ordered  clothes  from  their  tailors, 
until  now  Avenue  A  is  my  favorite  thor- 
oughfare. And  now  I  must  leave  the  city 
forever ;  but,  Herbert,  do  you  take  warn- 
ing from  the  wreck  you  see  before  you 
now.  Good-by,  my  old  friends !  "  And 
Walter  Weakfish  started  for  the  door. 

"  Stay !  "  cried  John.  "  Can  we  do 
nothing  for  you?  Shall  we  never  see 
you  again  ?  n 

221 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

"No,"  replied  Walter,  pausing  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold,  "  never  again ; 
for  I  am  going  to  Washington  to  patrol 
the  great  national  free-lunch  route  which 
they  call  Official  Society,  and  to  write 
correspondence  for  the  Western  papers. 
After  that,  the  morgue." 

The  door  closed,  and  he  was  gone. 
Then  a  moment's  silence  was  broken  by 
a  wail  of  anguish  from  Herbert. 

"  Thank  Heaven ! "  cried  John,  "  his 
heart  is  touched,  and  he  is  saved.  Every- 
body in  the  room  have  something  with 
me." 

And  before  morning  the  swelling  in 
Herbert's  head  was  reduced  so  rapidly 
that  he  had  to  drink  thirteen  hot  Scotches 
to  counteract  it.  And  from  that  day  to 
this  he  has  never  been  to  another  kettle- 
drum, nor  taken  anything  stronger  than 
rye  whisky. 


222 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG 
MAN  OF  TALENT. 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  Young 
Man  of  Talent,  whose  stories  were  so 
good  that  the  editor  of  the  paper  on 
which  he  was  employed  heard  the  Pro- 
fessional Humorist,  who  had  been  at- 
tached to  the  paper  for  twenty-eight 
years,  ask  the  city  editor,  "what  the 
deuce  the  old  man  meant  by  loading  up 
the  Sunday  supplement  with  all  that 
stuff;"  and  the  very  next  night  the 
Young  Man  asked  if  he  might  sign  his 
name  to  his  special  articles  in  the  Sunday 
paper.  Now  this  was  a  privilege  which 
had  never  been  accorded  to  anybody  who 
knew  how  to  write,  and  the  editor  was 
223 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

afraid  to  make  an  exception  in  favor  of 
the  Young  Man  for  fear  of  bringing  down 
upon  his  own  head  the  wrath  of  the  prize- 
fighters, skirt-dancers,  prominent  citizens, 
and  other  windbags  who  had  always  re- 
garded signed  articles  as  their  special 
prerogative. 

So  he  made  answer  that  the  signature 
was  usually  considered  a  badge  of  shame. 
But  the  Young  Man  persisted  in  his  de- 
mand until  the  editor  was  forced  to  give 
way,  and  the  following  Sunday  the  eyes 
of  the  Professional  Humorist  fell  upon  an 
article  which  bore  the  signature  of  the 
Young  Man  of  Talent,  and  which  was 
sandwiched  in  between  a  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  "How  I  Slugged  McGonegal's 
Unknown,"  by  Rocksey  Mclntyre,  and 
"  The  Spontaneity  of  Mediaeval  Art,"  by 
Professor  Stuffe. 

A  jealous,  angry  light  gleamed  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Professional  Humorist,  and 
he  swore  an  awful  oath  to  be  revenged 
224 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

on  the  rival  who  had  come  into  the  field 
with  a  variety  of  humor  that  would  in- 
evitably put  an  end  to  his  own  calling 
—  that  of  manufacturing  "  crisp  para- 
graphs"— which  he  had  pursued  without 
interruption  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century. 

Now  the  Professional  Humorist  be- 
longed to  the  "Association  of  Old-time 
Funny  Men,"  to  which  nobody  could  gain 
admittance  who  was  under  fifty-five  years 
of  age  or  who  had  ever  been  guilty  of  an 
original  piece  of  humor. 

When  one  of  the  order  wrote  a  crisp 
paragraph  about  a  door  being  not  a  door 
when  it  happened  to  be  ajar,  it  would  be- 
come the  duty  of  some  fellow-member  to 
quote  it  with  the  prefix :  "  Billy  Jaggs  of 
the  Blankburgh  Banner  says — "  and  add 
some  refined  pleasantry  of  this  sort: 
"  Billy's  mouth  is  usually  ajar  when  the 
whisky-jug  goes  round.  How  is  that 
for  high,  Jaggsey,  old  boy  ? "  and  then  the 
225 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

crisp  paragraph  would  be  "  passed  along  " 
after  the  fashion  prevalent  in  the  old 
days  when  American  humor  was  strug- 
gling for  popular  recognition. 

So  the  Professional  Humorist  com- 
municated with  his  fellow  funny  men, 
and  told  them  that  unless  concerted 
measures  were  taken  the  old-fashioned 
crisp  paragraphs  would  be  relegated  to 
the  obscurity  shared  by  other  features  of 
ante-bellum  journalism ;  and,  the  funny 
men  becoming  alarmed,  a  general  con- 
vention of  the  order  was  promptly  called 
and  as  quickly  assembled. 

At  this  gathering  of  the  comic  writers 
various  means  whereby  the  Young  Man 
of  Talent  should  be  destroyed  were  dis- 
cussed. 

"  It  would  be  better,"  said  a  hoary  and 
solemn  humorist,  whose  calling  was  in- 
dicated by  a  cane  made  in  imitation  of  a 
length  of  stovepipe,  with  a  handle  of 
goat's  horn,  "  much  better,  I  think,  if  we 
226 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

were  to  prevail  upon  him  to  enter  Society 
as  a  literary  celebrity,  and  make  a  prac- 
tice of  attending  kettledrums  and  recep- 
tions, where  he  will  be  encouraged  by 
women  to  talk  about  his  literary  methods, 
and  where  he  will  be  tempted  to  partake 
of  the  tea  and  cake  and  weak  punch 
which  have  ruined  so  many  brilliant 
careers.  If,  in  addition  to  that,  we  can 
arrange  with  the  Society  reporters  to 
publish  his  name  among  l  the  well-known 
literary  and  artistic  people  present'  as 
often  as  possible,  his  descent  will  be  swift 
and  sure." 

"  There  is  one  thing  necessary  to  make 
that  combination  invincible,"  said  a  para- 
grapher  whose  sound  logic  and  conser- 
vatism had  long  since  gained  for  him  the 
name  of  "The  Sage  of  Schoharie":  "we 
must  call  the  attention  of  somebody  like 
Mr.  Aldrich  or  Mr.  Howells  to  his  work, 
and  induce  him  to  express  a  favorable 
opinion  of  it.  If  Mr.  Aldrich  would  only 
227 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

say  that  lie  has  a  '  dainty  style/  or  if  Mr. 
Howells  would  praise  him  for  his  l  subtle 
delineation  of  character/  his  book,  which 
is  coming  out  in  a  few  weeks,  would  fall 
flat  on  the  market.  Then,  if  he  showed 
any  signs  of  life  after  that,  Edmund  Gosse 
might  administer  the  coup  de  grdce  with  a 
favorable  review  in  some  English  fort- 
nightly." 

These  measures  having  received  the  in- 
dorsement of  every  member  of  the  union, 
it  was  resolved  that  they  should  be 
promptly  earned  through ;  but  before  the 
meeting  adjourned  the  Professional  Hu- 
morist arose  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
say  a  few  words. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "  that  the 
course  we  have  decided  upon  will  result 
in  driving  this  new-comer  from  the  field 
of  letters ;  but  if  it  does  not  I  have  a  plan 
in  my  head  which  has  never  failed  yet. 
It  has  already,  within  my  own  memory, 
driven  several  of  our  most  promising 

228 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

writers  to  the  Potter's  Field,  and  if  des- 
perate measures  become  necessary  we  will 

try  it,  but  only  as  a  last  resort." 

***** 

A  year  rolled  by,  and  again  the  mem- 
bers of  the  union  assembled  for  their 
annual  convention. 

As  they  passed  through  Fourteenth 
Street  on  their  way  to  the  hall  of  meet- 
ing, a  sad-eyed,  despondent  figure  stood 
on  the  sidewalk  and  endeavored  to  sell 
them  lead-pencils  at  their  own  price.  A 
smile  of  triumph  lit  up  the  face  of  the 
Professional  Humorist  as  he  directed  the 
attention  of  his  fellow-members  to  the 
mournful,  ill-clad  wretch  on  the  curb- 
stone. "I  told  you  my  scheme  would 
work,"  he  said. 

It  was  even  so.  Neither  the  kettle- 
drums nor  the  commendations  of  the 
wiseacres  of  literature  had  had  any  effect 
on  the  Young  Man  of  Talent,  who  had 
gone  steadily  on  with  his  work,  unspoiled 
229 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

by  feminine  flattery,  and  heedless  of  the 
praise  or  commendations  of  the  critics. 

It  was  only  when  these  attempts  upon 
his  reputation  and  popularity  had  failed 
that  the  Professional  Humorist  threw 
himself  into  the  breach  with  a  paragraph 
— which  was  given  instant  and  wide  pub- 
licity by  the  rest  of  the  Association — 
stating  that  the  gifted  young  writer  was 
the  Dickens  of  America. 

And  then  the  Young  Man  of  Talent 
tottered  to  his  fall. 


THE    SOCIETY    REPORTER'S 
CHRISTMAS. 

EARLY  morn  in  the  little  parlor  of  a 
humble  white  cottage,  where  Susan  Swal- 
lowtail sat  waiting  for  her  husband  to 
return  from  the  ball.  It  lacked  but  a  few 
days  of  Christmas,  and  she  had  arisen  with 
her  little  ones  at  five  o'clock  in  order  that 
William,  her  husband,  might  have  a  warm 
breakfast  and  a  loving  greeting  on  his  re- 
turn after  his  long  night's  work. 

Seated  before  the  fire,  with  her  sewing 
on  her  lap,  Susan  Swallowtail's  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  days  when  William,  then 
on  the  threshold  of  his  career  as  a  Society 
reporter,  had  first  won  her  young  heart  by 
his  description  of  her  costume  at  the  ball 

231 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

of  the  "  Ladies'  Daughters'  Association  of 
the  Ninth  Ward."  She  remembered  how 
gallantly  and  tenderly  he  had  wooed  her 
through  the  columns  of  the  four  weekly 
and  Sunday  papers  in  which  he  conducted 
the  "Fashion  Chit-chat"  columns,  and 
then  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  memory 
brought  once  more  before  her  the  terrible 
night  when  William  came  to  the  house 
and  asked  her  father,  the  stern  old  house 
and  sign  painter,  for  his  daughter's  hand. 

"And  yet,"  said  Susan  to  herself,  "my 
life  has  not  been  altogether  an  unhappy 
one  in  spite  of  our  poverty.  William  has 
a  kind  heart,  and  I  am  sure  that  if  he  had 
anything  to  wear  besides  his  dress-suit 
and  flannel  dressing-gown  he  would  often 
brighten  my  lot  by  taking  me  out  some- 
where in  the  daytime.  Ah,  if  papa  would 
only  relent !  But  I  fear  he  will  never 
forgive  me  for  my  marriage." 

Her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  familiar  footsteps  in  the  hall, 
232 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

and  the  next  moment  her  husband  had 
clasped  her  in  his  arms,  while  the  children 
clung  to  his  ulster  and  clamored  for  their 
early  morning  kiss. 

But  there  was  a  cloud  on  the  young 
husband's  brow  and  a  tremor  on  his  lips 
as  he  said,  "  Run  away  now,  little  ones ; 
papa  and  mama  have  something  to  say 
to  each  other  that  little  ears  must  not 
hear." 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone,  "I  fear  that  our  Christmas 
will  not  be  a  very  merry  one.  You  know 
how  we  always  depend  on  the  ball  of 
the  Gilt-edged  Coterie  for  our  Christmas 
dinner  ? " 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  replied  the  young  wife, 
with  a  bright  smile 5  "what  beautiful 
sli ces  of  roast  beef  and  magnificent  mince- 
pies  you  always  bring  home  from  that 
ball !  Surely  they  will  give  their  enter- 
tainment on  Christmas  eve  this  year  as 
they  always  have  ? " 

233 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"Yes,  but — can  you  bear  to  hear  it, 
my  own  love  ? " 

"Let  me  know  the  worst,"  said  the 
young  wife,  bravely. 

"  Then,"  said  William,  hoarsely,  "  I  will 
tell  you.  I  am  not  going  to  that  ball. 
The  city  editor  is  going  to  take  the  as- 
signment himself,  and  I  must  go  to  a 
literary  and  artistic  gathering,  where 
there  will  be  nothing  but  tea  and  recita- 
tions." 

"Yes,"  said  Susan,  bitterly,  "and  sand- 
wiches so  thin  that  they  can  be  used  to 
watch  the  eclipse  of  the  sun.  But  what 
have  you  brought  back  with  you  now? 
I  hope  it  is  something  nourishing." 

"  My  darling,"  replied  William  Swallow- 
tail, in  faltering  tones,  "I  fear  you  are 
doomed  to  another  disappointment.  I 
have  done  my  best  to-night,  but  this  is  all 
I  could  get  my  hands  on ;  "  and  with  these 
words  he  drew  from  the  pockets  of  his 
heavy  woolen  ulster  a  paper  bag  filled 

234 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

with  wine  jelly,  a  box  of  matrons  glaces, 
and  two  pint  bottles  of  champagne. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Susau,  reproachfully. 
"The  children  have  had  nothing  to  eat 
since  yesterday  morning  except  pdtes  de 
foie  gras,  macaroons,  and  hothouse  grapes. 
All  day  long  they  have  been  crying  for 
corned-beef  sandwiches,  and  I  have  had 
none  to  give  them.  You  told  me,  Wil- 
liam, when  we  parted  in  the  early  eve- 
ning, that  you  were  going  to  a  house  where 
there  would  be  at  least  ham,  and  perhaps 
bottled  beer,  and  now  you  return  to  me 
with  this  paltry  package  of  jelly  and  that 
very  sweet  wine.  I  hope,  William  " — and 
a  cold,  hard  look  of  suspicion  crept  into 
her  face — "that  you  have  not  forgotten 
your  vows  and  given  to  another — " 

"  Susan  ! "  cried  William  Swallowtail, 
"how  can  you  speak  or  even  think  of 
such  a  thing,  when  you  know  full  well 
that—  " 

But  Susan  withdrew  from  his  embrace, 
235 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

and  asked  in  bitter,  cold  accents,  "Was 
there  ham  at  that  reception  or  was  there 
not?" 

"  There  was  hain,  and  corned  beef  too. 
I  will  not  deny  it;  but — " 

"  Then,  William,  with  what  woman  have 
you  shared  it  ? "  demanded  the  young  wife, 
drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  and 
fixing  her  dark,  flashing  eyes  full  upon 
him. 

"Susan,  I  implore  you,  listen  to  me, 
and  do  not  judge  me  too  harshly.  There 
was  ham,  but  there  were  several  German 
noblemen  there  too — Baron  Sneeze  of 
the  Austrian  legation,  Count  Pretzel,  and 
a  dozen  more.  The  smell  of  meat  in- 
flamed them,  and  I  fought  my  way  through 
them  in  time  to  save  only  this  from  the 
wreck." 

He  drew  from  his  ulster-pocket  some- 
thing done  up  in  a  piece  of  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  his  wife.  She  opened  the 
package  and  saw  that  it  contained  what 

236 


AND   OTHEE  TALES 

looked  like  a  long  piece  of  very  highly 
polished  ivory.  Then  her  face  softened, 
her  lips  trembled,  and  her  eyes  brimmed 
over  with  tears.  "  Forgive  me,  William, 
for  my  unjust  suspicions,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  threw  herself  once  more  into  his 
arms.  "  This  mute  ham-bone  tells  me  far 
more  strongly  than  any  words  of  yours 
could  the  story  of  the  Society  reporter's 
awful  struggle  for  life." 

William  kissed  his  young  wife  affec- 
tionately, and  then  sat  down  to  the  break- 
fast which  she  had  prepared  for  him. 

"I  hope,"  she  said,  cheerfully,  as  she 
took  a  dish  of  lobster  salad  from  the  oven, 
where  it  had  been  warmed  over,  "that 
you  will  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  quail 
this  week.  It  would  be  nice  to  have  one 
or  two  for  our  Christmas  dinner.  Of 
course  we  cannot  afford  corned  beef  and 
cabbage  like  those  rich  people  whom  you 
call  by  their  first  names  when  you  write 
about  them  in  the  Sunday  papers ;  but  I 

237 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

do  hope  we  will  not  be  obliged  to  put  up 
with  cakes  and  pastry  and  such  wretched 
stuff." 

"  Quail ! "  exclaimed  her  husband ;  "  they 
are  so  scarce  and  shy  this  winter  that  we 
are  obliged  to  take  setter-dogs  with  us  to 
the  entertainments  at  which  they  are 
served.  But  I  will  do  my  best,  darling." 

As  soon  as  William  had  gone  to  bed 
Susan  took  from  its  hiding-place  the 
present  which  she  had  prepared  for  her 
husband,  and  proceeded  to  sew  it  to  the 
inside  of  his  ulster  as  a  Christmas  sur- 
prise for  him.  She  sighed  to  think  that 
it  was  the  best  she  could  afford  this  year. 
It  was  a  useful  rather  than  an  ornamental 
gift — a  simple  rubber  pocket,  made  from 
a  piece  of  an  old  mackintosh,  and  in> 
tended  for  William  to  carry  soup  in. 

But  Susan  had  a  bright,  hopeful  spirit, 

and  a  smile  soon  smoothed  the  furrows 

from  her  face  as  she  murmured,  "How 

nice  it  will  be  when  William  comes  home 

238 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

with  his  new  pocket  filled  with  nice, 
warm,  nourishing  bouillon ! "  and  then  she 
glanced  up  from  her  work  and  saw  that 
her  daughter,  little  golden-haired  Eva, 
had  entered  the  room  and  was  looking  at 
her  out  of  her  great,  truthful,  deep-blue 

eyes. 

***** 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  and  as  Jacob 
Scaffold  trudged  through  the  frosty 
streets  the  keen  air  brought  a  ruddy 
glow  to  his  cheeks  and  tipped  his  nose 
with  a  brighter  carmine  than  any  that  he 
used  in  the  practice  of  his  art.  Entering 
the  hall  in  which  the  ball  of  the  Gilt- 
edged  Coterie  was  taking  place,  the  proud 
old  house  and  sign  painter  quickly  divest- 
ed himself  of  his  outer  wraps  and  made 
his  way  to  the  committee-room. 

Then,  adorned  with  a  huge  badge  and 
streamer,  he  strolled  out  to  greet  his 
friends,  who  were  making  merry  on  the 
polished  floor  of  the  ball-room.  But  al- 

239 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

though  the  band  played  its  most  stirring 
measures  and  the  lights  gleamed  on  arms 
and  necks  of  dazzling  whiteness,  old  Jacob 
Scaffold  sighed  deeply  as  he  seated  him- 
self in  a  rather  obscure  corner  and  allowed 
his  eyes  to  roam  about  the  room  as  if  in 
search  of  some  familiar  face. 

The  fact  was  that  the  haughty,  purse- 
proud  old  man  was  thinking  of  another 
Christmas  eve  ten  years  before  when  his 
daughter  Susan  had  danced  at  this  same 
ball,  the  brightest,  the  prettiest,  and  the 
most  sought-after  girl  on  the  floor. 

"And  to  think,"  said  the  old  man  to 
himself,  "  that,  with  all  the  opportunities 
she  had  to  make  a  good  match,  she  should 
have  taken  up  with  that  reporter  in  the 
shiny  dress-suit !  It's  five  years  since  I've 
heard  anything  of  her,  but  of  late  I've 
been  thinking  that  maybe  I  was  too  harsh 
with  her,  and  perhaps — " 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  a  servant,  who  told  him  that 
240 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

some  one  desired  to  see  him  in  the  com- 
mittee-room. On  reaching  that  apart- 
ment he  found  a  little  girl  of  perhaps 
eight  years  of  age,  plainly  clad,  and  carry- 
ing a  basket  in  her  hand.  Fixing  her 
eyes  on  Jacob  Scaffold,  she  said : 

"Please,  sir,  are  you  the  chairman  of 
the  press  committee  ? " 

"  I  am,"  replied  the  puzzled  artist ;  "  but 
who  are  you  ? " 

"  I  am  the  reporter  of  the  Sunday  Guff. 
My  papa  has  charge  of  the  'What  the 
Four  Hundred  are  Doing '  column,  but  to- 
night he  is  obliged  to  attend  a  chromo- 
literary  reception,  where  there  will  be 
nothing  to  eat  but  tea  and  cake.  Papa 
has  reported  your  balls  and  chowder  ex- 
cursions for  the  past  five  years,  and  we 
have  always  had  ham  for  dessert  for  a 
week  afterward.  We  had  all  been  look- 
ing forward  to  your  Christmas-eve  ball, 
and  when  papa  told  us  that  he  would 
have  to  go  to  the  tea  and  cake  place  to- 
241 


AND    OTHER   TALES 

night  mama  felt  so  badly  that  I  took 
papa's  ticket  out  of  his  pocket  when  he 
was  asleep  and  came  here  myself.  Papa 
has  a  thick  ulster,  full  of  nice  big  pockets, 
that  he  puts  on  when  he  goes  out  to  re- 
port, but  I  have  brought  a  basket." 

The  child  finished  her  simple  and  affect- 
ing narrative,  and  the  members  of  the 
press  committee  looked  at  one  another 
dumfounded.  Jacob  Scaffold  was  the 
first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  little  child  ? " 
he  inquired. 

"Eva  Swallowtail,"  she  answered,  as 
she  turned  a  pair  of  trusting,  innocent 
blue  eyes  full  upon  him. 

The  old  man  grew  pale  and  his  lips 
trembled  as  he  gathered  his  grandchild 
in  his  arms.  The  other  members  of  the 
committee  softly  left  the  room,  for  they 
all  knew  the  story  of  Susan  Scaffold's 
mesalliance  and  her  father's  bitter  f eelings 
toward  her  and  her  husband. 

242 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"What!"  cried  Jacob  Scaffold,  "my 
grandchild  wanting  bread  ?  Come  to  me, 
little  one,  and  we'll  see  what  can  be  done 
for  you." 

And  putting  on  his  heavy  ulster  he 
took  little  Eva  by  the  hand  and  led  the 
way  to  the  great  thoroughfare,  on  which 

the  stores  were  still  open. 

***** 

It  was  a  happy  family  party  that  sat 
down  to  dinner  in  William  Swallowtail's 
humble  home  that  bright  Christmas  day, 
and  well  did  the  little  ones  enjoy  the 
treat  which  their  generous  new-found 
grandparent  provided  for  them.  They 
began  with  a  soup  made  of  wine  jelly, 
and  ended  with  a  delicious  dessert  of 
corned-beef  sandwiches  and  large  Ger- 
man pickles ;  and  then,  when  they  could 
eat  no  more,  and  not  even  a  pork  pie  could 
tempt  their  appetites,  Grandpa  Scaffold 
told  his  daughter  that  he  was  willing  to 
lift  his  son-in-law  from  the  hard  and 
243 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

ill-paid  labor  of  writing  Society  chron- 
icles, and  give  him  a  chance  to  better 
himself  with  a  whitewash  brush.  "  And," 
continued  the  old  man,  "  if  I  see  that  he 
possesses  true  artistic  talent,  I  will  some 
day  give  him  a  chance  at  the  side  of  a 
house." 


244 


THE  DYING  GAG. 

THERE  was  an  affecting  scene  on  the 
stage  of  a  New  York  theatre  the  other 
night — a  scene  invisible  to  the  audience 
and  not  down  on  the  bills,  but  one  far 
more  touching  and  pathetic  than  any- 
thing enacted  before  the  footlights  that 
night,  although  it  was  a  minstrel  com- 
pany that  gave  the  entertainment. 

It  was  a  wild,  blustering  night,  and  the 
wind  howled  mournfully  around  the  street- 
corners,  blinding  the  pedestrians  with  the 
clouds  of  dust  that  it  caught  up  from  the 
gutters  and  hurled  into  their  faces. 

Old  man  Sweeny,  the  stage  doorkeeper, 
dozing  in  his  little  glazed  box,  was  awak- 
ened by  a  sudden  gust  that  banged  the 

245 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

stage  door  and  then  went  howling  along 
the  corridor,  almost  extinguishing  the 
gas-jets  and  making  the  minstrels  shiver 
in  their  dressing-rooms. 

"  What !  you  here  to-night  ? "  exclaimed 
old  man  Sweeny  as  a  frail  figure  muffled 
up  in  a  huge  ulster  staggered  through  the 
doorway  and  stood  leaning  against  the 
wall,  trying  to  catch  his  breath. 

"  Yes  j  I  felt  that  I  couldn't  stay  away 
from  the  footlights  to-night.  They  tell 
me  I'm  old  and  worn  out  and  had  better 
take  a  rest,  but  I'll  go  on  till  I  drop ; " 
and  with  a  hollow  cough  the  Old  Gag 
plodded  slowly  down  the  dim  and  draf ty 
corridor,  and  sank  wearily  on  a  sofa  in 
the  big  dressing-room,  where  the  other 
Gags  and  Conundrums  were  awaiting 
their  cues. 

"  Poor  old  fellow ! "  said  one  of  them, 
sadly,  "  he  can't  hold  out  much  longer." 

"He  ought  not  to  go  on  except  at 
matine'es,"  replied  another  veteran,  who 

246 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

was  standing  in  front  of  the  mirror  trim- 
ming his  long,  silvery  beard ;  and  just 
then  an  attendant  came  in  with  several 
basins  of  gruel,  and  the  old  Jests  tucked 
napkins  under  their  chins  and  sat  down 
to  partake  of  a  little  nourishment  before 
going  on. 

The  bell  tinkled  and  the  entertainment 
began.  One  after  another  the  Jokes  and 
Conundrums  heard  their  cues,  went  on, 
and  returned  to  the  dressing-room  5  for 
they  all  had  to  go  on  again  in  the  after- 
piece. The  house  was  crowded  to  the 
dome,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  dry  eye 
in  the  vast  audience  as  one  after  another 
of  the  old  Quips  and  Jests  that  had  been 
treasured  household  words  in  many  a 
family  came  on  and  then  disappeared  to 
make  room  for  others  of  their  kind. 

As  the  evening  wore  on  the  whisper 

ran  through  the  theatre  that  the  Old  Gag 

was  going  on  that  night — perhaps  for 

the  last  time;   and  many  an  eye  grew 

247 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

dim,  many  a  pulse  beat  quicker  at  the 
thought  of  listening  once  more  to  that 
hoary  Jest,  about  whose  head  were  clus- 
tered so  many  sacred  memories. 

Meanwhile  the  Old  Gag  was  sitting  in 
his  corner  of  the  dressing-room,  his  head 
bowed  on  his  breast,  his  gruel  untasted 
on  the  tray  before  him.  The  other  Gags 
came  and  went,  but  he  heeded  them  not. 
His  thoughts  were  far  away.  He  was 
dreaming  of  old  days,  of  his  early  strug- 
gles for  fame,  and  of  his  friends  and 
companions  of  years  ago.  "Where  are 
they  now?"  he  asked  himself,  sadly. 
"  Some  are  wanderers  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  in  comic  operas.  Two  of  them 
found  ignoble  graves  in  the  '  Tourists" 
company.  Others  are  sleeping  beneath 
the  daisies  in  Harper's  '  Editor's  Drawer.' " 

"  You're  called,  sir !  " 

The  Old  Gag  awoke  from  his  reverie, 
and  started  to  his  feet  with  something 
of  the  old-time  fire  flashing  in  his  eye. 

248 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Throwing  aside  his  heavy  ulster,  he  stag- 
gered to  the  entrance  and  stood  there 
patiently  waiting  for  his  cue. 

"  You're  hardly  strong  enough  to  go  on 
to-night/'  said  a  Merry  Jest,  touching  him 
kindly  on  the  arm ;  but  the  gray-bearded 
one  shook  him  off,  saying  hoarsely : 

"  Let  be  !  let  be !  I  must  read  those 
old  lines  once  more — it  may  be  for  the 
last  time." 

And  now  a  solemn  hush  fell  upon  the 
vast  audience  as  a  sad-faced  minstrel  ut- 
tered in  tear-compelling  accents  the  most 
pathetic  words  in  all  the  literature  of 
minstrelsy : 

"  And  so  you  say,  Mr.  Johnson,  that  all 
the  people  on  the  ship  were  perishing  of 
hunger,  and  yet  you  were  eating  fried 
eggs.  How  do  you  account  for  that  ? " 

For  one  moment  a  deathlike  silence 
prevailed.  Then  the  Old  Gag  stepped 
forward  and  in  clear,  ringing  tones  re- 
plied: 

249 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"  The  ship  lay  to,  and  I  got  one." 

A  wild,  heart-rending  sob  came  from 
the  audience  and  relieved  the  tension  as 
the  Old  Gag  staggered  back  into  the  en- 
trance and  fell  into  the  friendly  arms  that 
were  waiting  to  receive  him. 

Sobbing  Conundrums  bore  him  to  a 
couch  in  the  dressing-room.  Weeping 
Jokes  strove  in  vain  to  bring  back  the 
spark  of  life  to  his  inanimate  form.  But 
all  to  no  avail. 

The  Old  Gag  was  dead. 


250 


"ONLY  A  TYPE-WRITER." 

SCENE.  Cave  of  the  experienced  MANAGER 
in  the  centre  of  a  labyrinth  under  the  stage. 

MANAGER  (to  energetic  young  DRAMATIST 
who  has  tracked  him  to  his  lair).  Yes, 
young  feller,  I've  read  your  play,  and, 
while  it's  first-class  in  its  way,  it  ain't 
exactly  what  I  want.  Now  you  seem  to 
be  a  pushing,  active  sort  of  a  feller — if 
you  hadn't  been  you  never  would  have 
found  your  way  in  here — and  if  you  can 
only  get  me  up  the  sort  of  piece  I  want 
we  can  do  a  little  business  together.  In 
writing  a  play  you've  got  to  bear  one 
thing  in  mind,  and  that  is  to  adapt  your- 
self to  the  public  taste  and  the  resources 
of  the  theatre.  Are  you  on  ? 
251 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

DRAMATIST.  Certainly,  sir ;  and  I  shall 
be  only  too  nappy  to  write  something 
especially  for  your  theatre.  I  think  I  can 
do  it  if  I  only  get  a  chance.  Sardou  is 
my  model. 

MANAGER.  Well,  Sardou  is  all  right 
enough  in  his  way,  but  I'm  looking  after 
something  entirely  different.  Now  I  want 
a  strong  melodrama,  and  I'm  going  to  call 
it  Only  a  Type-writer;  or,  The  Pulse  of 
the  Great  Metropolis.  There  are  twenty 
thousand  type-writers  in  the  city,  and 
they'll  all  want  to  see  it,  and  each  of  them 
will  fetch  her  mother  or  her  feller  along 
with  her.  Then  they'll  gabble  about  it 
to  all  the  people  they  know — nothing  like 
a  lot  of  women  to  advertise  a  piece — and 
if  there's  any  go  in  the  play  at  all  it'll  be 
talked  about  from  Harlem  to  the  Battery 
before  it's  been  on  the  boards  a  week. 
Now,  of  course,  there's  got  to  be  a  moral ; 
in  fact,  you've  got  to  come  out  pretty 
d — d  strong  with  your  moral.  My  idea 
252 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

is  this:  In  the  first  act  you  show  the 
type- writer — whose  folks  are  all  gilt- 
edged  people  and 'way  up — in  an  elegant 
cottage  at  Newport.  She's  a  light-hearted, 
innocent  girl  in  a  white  muslin  dress  with 
a  blue  sash.  I'm  going  to  cast  Pearl 
Livingston  for  the  part,  and  she's  always 
crazy  to  make  up  for  an  innocent  girl. 
Recollect  you  can't  spread  the  innocence 
and  simplicity  on  too  thick.  Livingston 
wants  to  say  a  prayer  with  her  hair  hang- 
ing down  her  back,  so  if  you  can  ring 
that  in  somehow  it'll  be  all  the  better. 
You  must  give  her  a  good  entrance,  too, 
or  she'll  kick  like  a  steer. 

DRAMATIST.  Excuse  me,  but  I  don't  see 
exactly  how  a  type- writer  could  live  in  a 
Newport  cottage. 

MANAGER.  I'm  coming  to  that  right 
away.  You  see  this  act  is  just  to  show 
her  as  a  light-hearted,  innocent  girl 
whose  father  has  always  been  loaded  up 
with  dust,  so  she's  never  known  what  it 
253 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

was  to  holler  for  a  sealskin  sack  and  not 
get  it.  But  in  the  end  of  the  act  the 
father  goes  broke  and  exclaims,  "  Merciful 
heavens,  we  are  beggars ! "  and  drops 
dead.  His  wife  gives  a  shriek,  and  all 
the  society  people  rush  on  from  the  wings 
so  as  to  make  a  picture  at  the  back,  while 
the  daughter — that's  Livingston,  you 
know — takes  the  centre  of  the  stage  and 
says, "  No,  mother  " —  or  "  mommer  "  would 
sound  more  affectionate,  maybe — "No, 
mommer,"  she  says,  "  not  beggars  yet,  for 
I  will  work  for  you !  "  Curtain !  Are 
you  on  to  the  idea  ? 

DRAMATIST.  Well,  I  believe  I  under- 
stand your  scheme  so  far.  But  who's 
the  hero,  and  where  do  you  get  your 
comedy  element  ? 

MANAGER.  Oh,  the  comedy  is  easy 
enough  to  manage,  and  as  for  the  hero, 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  shows  up  in 
the  first  act  and  wants  to  marry  her,  but 
she  gives  him  the  bounce  because  he's 

254 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

poor  as  a  crow.  Better  make  him  an  Ar- 
tist or  something  of  that  sort.  It  might 
be  a  good  idea  to  have  him  a  reporter, 
and  then  he  can  read  some  good  strong 
lines  about  the  dignity  of  his  profession 
or  something  of  that  sort,  just  so  as  to 
catch  on  with  the  press  boys.  Well,  the 
next  act  shows  the  girl  living  in  a  garret 
in  New  York,  supporting  herself  and  her 
mother  by  type-writing.  Lay  it  on  thick 
about  their  being  poor  and  industrious 
and  all  that,  and  have  some  good  lines 
about  the  noble  working-girl  or  the  vir- 
tuous type-writer  or  something  of  that 
sort.  Livingston's  got  an  elegant  new 
silk  gown  that  she  says  she's  going  to 
wear  in  that  act,  so  you'll  have  to  give 
her  a  few  lines  to  explain  that  although 
they're  poor  she  still  has  that  dress  and 
won't  part  with  it  because  her  father 
gave  it  to  her,  and  so  she  wears  it  at 
home  nights  when  the  other  one's  in  the 
wash. 

255 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

DRAMATIST.  Excuse  me,  but  isn't  it 
rather  strange  for  a  poor  type-writer  to 
appear  in  a  handsome  new  silk  dress  when 
she's  having  hard  work  to  support  herself 
and  her  mother  ?  Why  not  put  her  in  a 
-  plain  gingham  gown  —  ? 

MANAGER.  Plain  gingham  be  blowed ! 
Say,  young  feller,  when  you  know  that 
cat  Livingston  as  well  as  I  do,  you  won't 
sit  here  talking  about  plain  gingham 
gowns.  No,  siree;  she  won't  touch  any 
part  unless  she  can  dress  it  right  up  to 
the  handle.  Well,  this  act  is  in  two 
scenes.  The  first  is  a  front  scene  show- 
ing the  humble  house  on  the  virtuous- 
poverty  plan,  with  the  old  lady  warming 
her  hands  at  a  little  fire  and  saying,  "  Oh, 
it  is  bitter  cold  to-night,  and  the  wind 
cuts  like  a  knife."  And  then  we  can  have 
the  wind  whistling  through  the  garret  in 
a  melancholy  sort  of  way.  The  next 
scene  shows  a  broker's  office  where  the 
type-writer  is  employed.  Here  you  can 

256 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

run  in  a  little  comedy  and  show  them 
having  a  lot  of  fun  while  the  old  man  is 
out  at  lunch.  Livingston's  got  some  first- 
rate  music —  sort  of  pathetic-like — and 
you  can  write  some  words  to  it  for  her  to 
sing.  Write  something  appropriate,  such 
as,  "  I'm  only  a  working-girl,  but  I'm  vir- 
tuous, noble,  and  true."  How  does  that 
sound,  hey  ?  Well,  in  this  act  her  em- 
ployer insults  her,  and  she  leaves  him, 
though  she  hasn't  a  cent  in  the  world  and 
doesn't  know  where  to  go.  You  must 
give  her  a  good  strong  scene,  and  have 
the  curtain  fall  on  a  tableau  of  indignant 
virtue  rebuking  the  tempter.  You  must 
have  a  picture  there  that  we  can  use  on  a 
three-sheet  poster.  In  the  next  act  we 
have  the  grand  climax.  The  villain  still 
pursues  her  to  her  new  place,  for  she  gets 
a  job  with  the  aid  of  the  poor  young 
lover  who  was  bounced  in  the  first  act. 
Just  as  the  old  villain  is  about  to  seize 
her  and  cariy  her  off  by  main  force,  the 
257 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

young  lover  rushes  in  and  knocks  him  out 
with  a  fire-shovel.  He  falls  and  breaks 
his  skull.  In  comes  the  doctor — the  lover 
goes  to  fetch  him — and  meanwhile  the 
type- writer  gives  him  some  pious  talk  and 
converts  him.  Maybe  it  would  be  a  good 
idea  to  ring  in  the  prayer  in  this  act. 
Livingston's  dead  stuck  on  having  it  in 
the  piece.  Well,  he  repents  of  his  wicked- 
ness, and  when  the  doctor  says  he  has 
only  ten  minutes  to  live  he  says,  "  Oh,  if 
I  but  had  the  time  I  would  make  a  will 
and  leave  all  my  wealth  to  this  noble  girl ; 
but  there  is  not  time  enough  to  write  it." 
And  then  Livingston  says,  "What's  the 
matter  with  my  doing  it  on  my  faithful 
type-writing  machine  ? "  or  words  to  that 
effect.  So  she  takes  it  down  like  light- 
ning, and  he  has  just  time  to  sign  it 
before  he  expires.  Now,  young  feller, 
you've  got  my  idea  of  a  play.  You  go  to 
work  and  write  something  on  that  basis ; 
and  mind  you  don't  forget  what  I  said 
258 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

about  Livingston's  prayer  and  silk  dress, 
but  don't  work  'em  both  in  in  the  same  act. 
Fetch  it  around  to  me  and  maybe  we  can 
do  business.  Do  you  want  to  tackle  the 
job? 

DRAMATIST   (dubiously).      I'll  try,   sir, 
but  I'm  afraid  it's  a  little  out  of  my  line. 


259 


THE  CULTURE  BUBBLE  IN 
OURTOWN. 

You  must  know,  in  the  first  place,  that 
I  am  a  resident  of  the  thriving  city  of 
Ourtown,  where  for  twenty  years  past  I 
have  held  the  position  of  librarian  in  the 
town  library — a  place  which  has,  of  course, 
brought  me  into  contact  with  the  most 
intellectual  circles  of  society,  and  has  won 
for  me  general  recognition  as  the  leader 
of  literary  and  artistic  thought  in  my 
native  city. 

Last  winter  I  returned  to  Ourtown 
after  a  six  months'  absence,  and  found  to 
my  dismay  that  the  social  life  of  the 
place  was  altered  almost  beyond  recog- 
nition. "  And  is  the  Coasting  Club  still 

260 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

flourishing  ? "  I  inquired,  eagerly,  for  there 
was  a  foot  of  snow  on  the  ground,  and 
my  memory  went  back  to  the  jolly  moon- 
light slides  that  we  used  to  enjoy  on  the 
North  Hill,  and  the  late  suppers  of  fried 
oysters,  beer,  cheese,  and  even  hot  mince- 
pie  which  had  no  terrors  for  us. 

"  The  Coasting  Club ! "  retorts  Mrs.  Jack 
Symple,  to  whom  my  remark  was  ad- 
dressed ;  "  mercy,  no !  We  haven't  even 
thought  of  coasting  this  winter.  As  for 
me,  I've  been  so  interested  in  the  Satur- 
day Night  Club  that  I  haven't  had  a 
moment's  time  for  anything  else.  Oh, 
you'll  be  surprised  when  you  see  how 
much  more  cultured  the  town  is  now  than 
it  was  when  you  went  away !  You  never 
hear  anything  now  about  skating  or  coast- 
ing or  sleigh-rides  or  doings  of  that  sort. 
It's  all  Ibsen  and  Browning  and  Tolstoi 
and  pre-Raphaelite  art  and  Emerson 
nowadays,  and  Professor  Gnowital  says 
that  there's  as  much  real  culture  in  Our- 
261 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

town,  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  in- 
habitants, as  there  is  in  Boston." 

My  eyes  dilated  as  Mrs.  Symple  rattled 
off  this  jargon  about  the  intellectual 
growth  of  Ourtown.  A  year  ago  I  had 
regarded  her  as  a  young  woman  with 
brain-cells  of  the  most  primitive  form 
imaginable,  picking  up  pebbles  on  the 
shores  of  the  Shakespeare  class ;  and  here 
she  was  drinking  deep  draughts  of  ad- 
vanced thought,  and  talking  about  Ibsen 
and  Tolsto'i  and  Emerson  as  glibly  as  if 
they  were  old  acquaintances. 

"And  who  is  Professor  Gnowital?"  I 
asked,  "  and  by  what  formula  does  he  es- 
timate the  comparative  degrees  of  culture 
to  the  square  foot  in  Boston  and  Our- 
town ?  He  must  be  a  man  of  remarkable 
gifts." 

"  Remarkable  gifts !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Sym- 
ple, "  well,  I  should  think  so.  He  comes 
from  Boston  and  he's  been  giving  read- 
ings here  before  the  Saturday  Night  Club. 

262 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

And  oh,  you  must  come  and  make  an 
address  at  the  meeting  next  week !  It's 
to  be  the  grand  gala  one  of  the  whole 
course.  Professor  Gnowital  is  coming  on 
to  attend  it  with  some  really  cultivated 
people  from  Boston,  and  you'll  be  sur- 
prised to  see  what  a  fine  literary  society 
there  is  here  now." 

I  agreed  to  address  the  Saturday  Night 
Club,  but  I  saw  with  deep  sorrow  that  the 
town  had  simply  gone  mad  over  what  it 
termed  "  culture."  People  whom  I  had 
always  regarded  as  but  little  better  than 
half-wits  were  gravely  uttering  opinions 
about  Carlyle  and  Emerson,  or  "doing" 
German  literature  through  the  medium  of 
English  translations.  And  all  this  idiocy 
in  place  of  the  Shakespeare  Club,  sleigh- 
rides,  late  suppers,  and  coasting,  that 
once  made  lif e  so  delightful  for  us  all. 

Mrs.  Symple  had  asked  me  to  address 
the  club  on  whatever  topic  I  might  select, 
and  while  I  was  considering  the  invita- 
263 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

tion  a  great  idea  took  possession  of  my 
brain.  To  think  was  to  act ;  and  without 
a  moment's  delay  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  my  old  friend,  Dr.  Paule- 
jeune,  begging  him  to  come  up  and  ad- 
dress the  club  in  my  stead,  and  by  so 
doing  render  a  service  not  only  to  his 
lifelong  friend,  but  to  the  great  cause  of 
enlightenment  and  human  progress  as 
well. 

Now  Dr.  Paulejeune  is  not  only  an 
educated  man  with  the  thinking  habit 
long  fastened  upon  him,  but  also  that 
rara  avis,  a  Frenchman  who  thoroughly 
understands  the  language,  literature,  and 
social  structure  of  America.  Moreover 
he  possesses  in  a  marked  degree  the  pa- 
triotism, wit,  and  cynicism  of  his  race, 
and  has  a  few  hearty  prejudices  against 
certain  modern  vogues  in  art  which  are 
remote  from  the  accepted  ideals  of  the 
Latin  race.  Happily  enough  his  name 
was  well  known  in  Ourtown  by  reason 
264 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

of  his  little  volume  of  essays,  which  had 
just  then  made  its  appearance. 

Our  town  society  never  gathered  in 
stronger  force  than  it  did  on  the  evening 
of  the  Saturday  Night  Club  meeting  at 
the  Assembly  Rooms.  At  half -past  eight 
the  president  of  the  club  introduced  the 
first  speaker,  Mr.  W.  Brindle  Fantail,  a 
young  man  who  made  himself  conspic- 
uous in  Boston  a  few  years  ago  by  means 
of  Browning  readings,  which  he  con- 
ducted with  a  brazen  effrontery  that 
compelled  the  unwilling  admiration  of 
his  rivals.  In  the  words  of  Jack  Symple, 
"  He  caught  the  Browning  boom  on  the 
rise  and  worked  it  for  all  it  was  worth." 
Mr.  Fantail  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  ran  a  large  flabby  hand  through 
his  dank  shock  of  light  hair,  and  then  an- 
nounced as  his  subject,  "Tolstoi,  the 
Modern  Homer."  Then,  with  that  calm 
self-possession  which  has  carried  him  un- 
harmed through  many  a  dreaiy  mono- 

265 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

logue  or  reading,  lie  told  his  hearers  what 
a  great  man  Tolstoi  was,  and  how  grate- 
ful they  ought  to  be  for  an  opportunity 
to  learn  of  his  many  excellences.  Of 
course  he  did  not  put  it  quite  as  broadly 
as  that,  but  that  was  the  gist  of  his  re- 
marks. He  told  us,  moreover,  that  the 
whole  range  of  English  literature  con- 
tained no  such  work  of  fiction  as  Sevas- 
topol, and  that  no  writer  of  modern  times 
excelled — or  even  equaled — this  Russian 
Homer.  "  In  short,"  he  said,  impressively, 
"  Tolstoi'  is  distinctly  epoch-making." 

The  next  speaker  was  the  illustrious 
Professor  Gnowital,  who  declared  that 
Ourtown  would  never  experience  any 
genuine  intellectual  development  unless 
a  thorough  study  of  the  fantastic  ro- 
mances of  Hoffmann  was  begun  at  once. 
I  cannot  imagine  what  started  the  pro- 
fessor off  on  that  tack  unless  it  was  a 
desire  to  choose  a  subject  of  which  his 
hearers  knew  absolutely  nothing.  His 

266 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

words  had  a  great  effect,  however,  for 
very  few  members  of  the  club  had  ever 
heard  of  Hoffmann,  and  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  these  that  his  ghostly  tales  were 
at  all  in  the  line  of  that  modern  culture 
which  they  all  adored. 

The  next  speaker  was  Mrs.  Measel, 
whose  career  I  have  watched  with  feel- 
ings of  mingled  respect  and  amazement. 
Mrs.  Measel  has  taught  art  in  a  dozen 
towns,  lectured  on  the  Great  Unknowable 
in  at  least  two  of  the  large  cities,  and 
given  "  Mornings  with  Montaigne,"  "  Bab- 
blings from  Browning/'  and  "  Studies 
from  Stepniak,"  in  whatever  place  she 
could  obtain  a  hearing.  On  this  occasion 
she  talked  about  the  renaissance  of  some- 
thing or  other,  I've  forgotten  exactly 
what — and,  by  the  way,  there  is  no  bet- 
ter word  for  use  in  culture  circles  than 
renaissance,  and  that,  too,  whether  you 
can  pronounce  it  or  not — well,  she  be- 
gan with  her  renaissance,  but  very  soon 
267 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

branched  off  into  a  dissertation  on  Tolstoi 
and  Ibsen  and  a  few  more  "epoch- 
making"  people  with  whose  names  she 
happened  to  be  familiar.  I  remember 
she  said  that  The  Doll's  House  was  one 
of  the  grandest  plays  of  modern  times, 
whereat  Dr.  Paulejeune,  who  had  listened 
to  everything  up  to  this  point  without 
turning  a  hair,  smiled  broadly.  On  the 
whole  Mrs.  Measel's  was  a  good  shallow 
talk  for  good  shallow  people,  and  I  am  sure 
she  made  a  delightful  impression  on  us  all. 
Then,  at  a  signal  from  the  president, 
Dr.  Paulejeune  made  his  way  to  the  plat- 
form and  delivered  an  address  which  I  am 
sure  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who 
heard  it.  It  was  a  daring  speech  for  any 
one  to  make,  and  particularly  so  for  a 
stranger,  and  that  it  proved  effective  in  a 
far  higher  degree  than  either  of  us  had 
ever  expected  was  due  to  the  tact,  scholar- 
ship, subtlety,  and  sincerity  of  my  dis- 
tinguished friend,  Dr.  fimile  Paulejeune. 

268 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

The  doctor  began  with  a  graceful  trib- 
ute to  the  eloquence,  wit,  and  scholarship 
of  the  speakers  who  had  preceded  him, 
and  then  went  on  to  say  that  he  had 
chosen  as  the  subject  of  his  discourse 
one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  fiction  that 
the  world  has  ever  known — Daniel  De  Foe. 

There  was  hearty  applause  at  this,  and 
some  scratching  of  heads  and  obvious 
efforts  on  the  part  of  certain  guests  to 
remember  who  De  Foe  was  and  what  he 
had  written.  I  could  not  help  turning 
in  my  chair  to  take  a  look  at  Mrs.  Symple. 
The  poor  little  woman  was  leaning  for- 
ward with  an  expression  of  absolute 
dismay  on  her  silly  face.  I  could  read 
her  thoughts  plainly :  "  Oh  dear,  this  new 
doctor  has  been  and  gone  and  dragged  up 
another  man  for  me  to  read  about,  and 
Pm  sure  if  I  get  one  more  book  into  my 
head  it'll  crowd  some  other  one  out ! n 

But  the  look  of  dismay  changed  to  one 
of  blank,  open-mouthed  amazement,  which 
269 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

was  shared  by  a  large  number  of  the 
guests,  as  Dr.  Paulejeune  continued  im- 
pressively :  "  And  the  book  which  I  have 
come  prepared  to  speak  of  is  Robinson 
Crusoe." 

Then  the  doctor  took  up,  each  in  its 
turn,  the  writings  and  writers  whom  we 
had  heard  commended  by  the  previous 
speakers.  "Tolstoi  is  all  very  well,"  he 
said,  "if  you  happen  to  be  fond  of  Rus- 
sian pessimism,  and  are  not  fortunate 
enough  to  be  familiar  with  classic  Eng- 
lish literature,  which  contains  hundreds 
of  stronger,  better-drawn  pictures  than 
Sevastopol."  He  dismissed  Hoffmann 
from  the  discussion  with  the  contemp- 
tuous remark  that  he  was  "simply  a 
Dutch  Poe,  and  very  Dutch  at  that."  In 
speaking  of  Ibsen  he  threw  his  audience 
into  convulsions  of  laughter  by  gravely 
comparing  The  Doll's  House  with  Jacob 
Abbott's  Rollo  Learning  to  Work,  a  book 
which  he  assured  us  not  only  surpassed 
270 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Ibsen's  masterpiece  in  the  simplicity  and 
directness  of  its  style,  but  abounded  in 
dramatic  situations  that  were  as  thrilling 
as  any  that  the  Northern  writer  had  ever 
devised.  "  For  instance,"  he  said,  "  there 
is  a  chapter  in  that  estimable  little  Rollo 
book  which  tells  us  how  the  hero  was 
making  a  woodpile,  and,  disregarding  the 
sound  counsel  of  the  conservative  Jonas, 
insisted  upon  piling  the  sticks  of  wood 
with  the  small  ends  out  and  the  large 
ends  inside  against  the  wall  of  the  wood- 
shed. Do  any  of  you,  my  friends,  recall 
the  scene  of  the  heap  toppling  over  ?  It 
is  portrayed  in  Mr.  Abbott's  most  realistic 
style,  and  is  in  itself  an  ideal  Ibsen 
climax. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  exclaimed,  advanc- 
ing to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  shak- 
ing a  long,  bony  forefinger  at  his  audi- 
tors, "do  you  know — you  who  call  this 
Scandinavian  a  dramatist — that  perhaps 
the  most  thrilling  dramatic  situation  in 

271 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

all  literature  is  found  here  in  this  book, 
Robinson  Crusoe  f  If  you  want  to  know 
what  a  dramatic  situation  is,  read  Daniel 
De  Foe's  account  of  Crusoe  finding  the 
human  footprint  on  the  shore  of  his  des- 
ert island.  And  then  read  the  whole 
book  carefully  through  and  enjoy  its 
vivid  descriptions,  its  superb  English,  its 
philosophy,  and  the  great  lessons  which 
it  teaches.  And  when  you  have  finished 
it  ask  yourselves  if  any  man  ever  ob- 
tained as  complete  a  mastery  of  the 
magic,  beautiful  art  of  story-telling  as 
did  Daniel  De  Foe !  " 

When  the  doctor  finished  his  address 
he  was  greeted  with  thunders  of  applause, 
while  Fantail,  Gnowital,  and  Mrs.  Measel 
sat  dazed  at  this  sudden  attack  on  their 
stronghold. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  a  little  plain,  or- 
dinary sense  at  last,"  was  the  way  in 
which  some  one  expressed  the  common 
sentiment  of  the  club. 
272 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

"And  to  think,"  chattered  Mrs.  Sym- 
ple,  "that  we  were  cultivated  all  along 
and  didn't  know  it!  Why,  I  read  the 
Bollo  books  and  Robinson  Crusoe  when  I 
was  a  child,  and  never  dreamt  that  they 
were  artistic  or  literary  or  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  thought  they  were  just  stories. 
The  idea  of  our  paying  a  dollar  apiece 
for  Mrs.  Measel's  lectures,  and  muddling 
our  heads  with  Ibsen  and  Tolsto'i  and  the 
rest  of  them  that  Professor  Gnowital  told 
us  were  so  grand,  while  all  the  time  we 
were  really  cultured  and  didn't  know  it ! " 

The  result  of  my  friend's  lecture  was 
that  within  a  week  we  were  sliding  down- 
hill and  enjoying  ourselves  in  the  old 
way,  and  in  less  than  a  fortnight  the  pro- 
phets of  culture  had  departed  in  search  of 
fresh  pastures. 

I  do  hope,  however,  that  Mrs.  Measel 
will  succeed,  for  she  deserves  to  if  ever  a 
woman  did.  She  has  educated  two  chil- 
dren on  the  profits — or  rather  the  spoils 
273 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

— of  the  Browning  craze,  and  has  made 
Tolstoi  pay  for  the  care  of  an  invalid 
sister.  She  gives  more  culture  for  the 
money  than  any  one  in  the  business,  and 
I  can  heartily  commend  her  to  any  club 
or  community  that  feels  a  yearning  for 
the  Unknowable. 


274 


SOME   THOUGHTS    ON    THE    CON- 
STRUCTION   AND    PRESERVA- 
TION OF  JOKES. 

I. — THE    "JOKAL  CALENDAR." 

EVERY  joke  has  its  appropriate  season. 
The  true  humorist — one  who  finds  com- 
edy in  everything — gathers  his  ideas 
from  what  goes  on  about  him,  and  by  a 
subtle  alchemy  of  his  own  distils  from 
them  jokes  suitable  to  the  changing 
seasons.  The  only  laws  to  which  child- 
hood willingly  yields  obedience  are  those 
unwritten  statutes  which  compel  the 
proper  observance  of  "  trap-time,"  "  kite- 
time,"  and  "  marble-time."  So  even  must 
the  humorist  recognize  the  different 
periods  allotted  respectively  to  goats, 
275 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

stovepipes,  ice-cream,  and  other  founda- 
tions of  merriment. 

The  Jokal  Calendar  begins  in  the  early 
summer,  when  girls  are  leading  young 
men  into  ice-cream  saloons,  and  keepers 
of  summer  resorts  are  preparing  new 
swindles  for  their  guests.  Soon  the 
farmer  will  gather  in  his  crop  of  sum- 
mer boarders ;  the  city  fisherman  will  en- 
tangle his  patent  flies  in  the  branches  of 
lofty  trees,  while  the  country  lad  catches 
all  the  trout  with  a  worm.  Then  the 
irate  father  and  the  bulldog  will  drive  the 
lover  from  the  front  gate,  while  married 
men  who  remain  in  the  city  during  their 
wives'  absence  play  poker  until  early 
morn  and  take  grass-widows  to  Coney 
Island.  About  this  time  the  chronicler 
of  humor  goes  into  the  country,  whence 
he  will  return  in  the  early  fall  with  a 
fresh  stock  of  ideas,  gathered  in  the  vil- 
lage store,  at  the  farm-house  table,  and 
by  the  shores  of  the  sounding  sea. 
276 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Beginning  his  autumn  labors  with  the 
scent  of  the  hay-fields  in  his  nostrils,  and 
the  swaying  boughs  of  the  pine  forest 
still  whispering  in  his  ears,  the  humorist 
offers  a  few  dainty  paragraphs  on  the 
simple  joys  of  rural  life.  The  farmer 
who  dines  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  the  an- 
tiquity of  the  spring  fowl,  the  translucent 
milk,  and  the  saline  qualities  of  the  pork 
which  grace  the  table ;  the  city  man  who 
essays  to  milk  the  cow,  and  the  country 
deacon  who  has  been  "  daown  to  York  " — 
all  these  are  sketched  with  vivid  pen  for 
the  delectation  of  his  readers.  But  it 
must  be  remembered  that  these  subjects 
have  been  used  during  the  whole  sum- 
mer ;  and  the  humorist,  after  his  return 
to  the  city,  can  offer,  at  the  best,  but  an 
aftermath  of  farm-house  fun.  If  it  be  a 
late  fall  the  public  may  slide  along  on 
banana  and  orange  peel  jokes  until  the 
first  cold  snap  warns  housekeepers  of 
the  necessity  of  putting  up  stovepipes. 
277 


AND   OTHEE   TALES 

(NOTE. — About  this  time  print  para- 
graph of  gas-company  charging  a  man 
for  gas  while  his  house  was  closed  for  the 
summer.  Allusions  to  the  extortions  of 
gas-companies  are  always  welcome.) 

Stovepipe  jokes  must  be  touched  upon 
lightly,  for  the  annual  spring  house-clean- 
ing will  bring  the  pipes  down  again,  six 
months  later,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
cold  dinners,  itinerant  pails  of  hot  soap- 
suds, and  other  miseries  incident  to  that 
domestic  event. 

And  now  that  the  family  stovepipe  has 
ceased  to  exude  smoke  at  every  joint  and 
pore,  the  humorist  finds  himself  fairly 
equipped  for  his  year's  work.  The  boys 
are  at  school ;  lodge-meetings  have  be- 
gun, and  sleepless  wives  are  waiting  for 
their  truant  lords ;  college  graduates  are 
seeking  positions  in  newspaper  offices 
(and  sometimes  getting  and  keeping 
them,  though  it  won't  do  to  let  the  pub- 
lic know  it)  ;  election  is  at  hand,  and 

278 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

candidates  are  kissing  babies  and  setting 
up  the  drinks  for  their  constituents ; 
young  men  of  slender  means  are  laying 
pipes  for  thicker  clothes  —  in  short,  a 
man  must  be  dull  of  wit  who  cannot  find 
food  for  comic  paragraphs  in  what  goes 
on  about  him  at  this  fruitful  season. 
The  ripening  of  the  chestnut-burr,  and 
the  harvesting  of  its  fruit  —  beautifully 
symbolical  of  the  humorist's  vocation — 
form  another  admirable  topic  at  this  time. 
Winter  comes  with  its  snow  and  ice, 
and  the  small  boy,  who  is  always  around, 
moulds  the  one  into  balls  for  destructive 
warfare,  while  corpulent  gentlemen  and 
pedestrians  bearing  eggs  and  other  fragile 
articles  slip  and  fall  on  the  other.  Oys- 
ter-stews, and  girls  who  pine  for  them ; 
the  female  craving  for  matinee  tickets, 
and  the  high  hats  which  obstruct  the  view 
of  those  in  the  back  seats;  nocturnal 
revelry  in  saloon  and  ball-room;  low- 
necked  dresses ;  and  the  extortionate  idle- 

279 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

ness  of  the  plumber  now  keep  the  pen 
of  the  comic  writer  constantly  at  work. 
Chapters  on  the  pawning,  borrowing, 
lending,  and  renovation  of  the  dress-coat 
are  also  timely. 

Spring  brings  the  perennial  spring  poet 
with  his  rejected  manuscript;  the  actor 
with  his  winter's  ulster ;  the  health-giving 
bock-beer ;  and,  above  all,  the  goat,  in  the 
delineation  of  whose  pranks  and  follies 
the  JoJcal  Calendar  reaches  its  climax. 

What  the  reindeer  is  to  the  Laplander 
the  goat  is  to  the  writer  of  modern 
humor.  His  whole  life  is  devoted  to  the 
service  of  the  paragraphist.  He  eats 
tomato-cans  and  crinoline ;  he  rends  the 
theatre-poster  from  the  wall,  and  con- 
sumes the  bucket  of  paste ;  he  rends  the 
clothes  from  the  line,  and  devours  the 
curtain  that  nutters  in  the  basement  win- 
dow ;  he  upsets  elderly  men,  and  charges, 
with  lowered  horns,  at  lone  and  fear- 
stricken  women. 

280 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

But  as  the  encroachments  of  civiliza- 
tion have  driven  the  buffalo  from  his 
native  plains,  so  is  the  goat,  propelled  by 
a  stern  city  ordinance,  slowly  but  surely 
disappearing  from  the  streets  and  vacant 
lots  which  once  knew  him  so  well.  He  is 
making  his  last  stand  now  in  the  rocky 
fastnesses  of  Harlem.  I  have  seen  him 
perched  on  an  inaccessible  crag  on  the 
border-land  of  Morrisania,  looking  down 
with  solemn  eyes  on  the  great  city  where 
he  once  roamed  careless  and  free  from 
can  to  ash-barrel.  Etched  against  a  back- 
ground of  lowering  clouds,  his  was,  in- 
deed, an  impressive  figure,  the  apotheosis 
of  American  humor. 

H.  —  THE   IDEA   AND  ITS  EMBELLISHMENT. 

In  the  construction  of  a  joke  the  chief 
requisite  is  the  Idea. 

Making  jokes  without  ideas  is  like 
making  bricks  without  straw;  and  the 

281 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

people  who  tried  that  were  sent  out  into 
the  Wilderness  to  wander  for  forty  years 
and  live  exclusively  on  manna  and  water 
—  a  diet  which  is  not  provocative  of 
humor.  Indeed  it  is  a  noteworthy  fact 
that  although  the  children  of  Israel  were 
accompanied  in  their  journeying  by  herds 
of  goats,  and  were  constantly  hearing 
stories  of  the  huge  squashes  and  clusters 
of  grapes  which  grew  in  the  Promised 
Land — the  California  of  that  period  — 
yet  we  have  no  record  that  they  availed 
themselves  of  such  obvious  opportunities 
for  jesting. 

The  humorist,  having  procured  his  Idea, 
should  divest  it  of  all  superfluities,  place 
it  on  the  table  before  him,  and  then  fall 
into  a  reverie  as  to  its  possibilities.  Let 
us  suppose,  for  example,  that  his  Idea.,  in 
a  perfectly  nude  condition,  looks  some- 
thing like  this : 

"A  girl  is  thin  enough  to  make  a  good 
match  for  any  one." 

282 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Now  it  will  not  do  to  offer  this  simple 
statement  as  a  joke.  It  is  merely  an  Idea, 
or  the  nucleus  of  a  short  story,  and  can 
be  greatly  improved  by  a  little  verbiage. 

There  would  be  no  point  gained  in 
calling  the  girl  a  New  Yorker,  or  even  a 
Philadelphian,  though  the  latter  city  is 
usually  fair  game  for  the  paragraphist. 
She  should  certainly  hail  from  Boston. 
The  girls  of  that  city  are  identified  in 
the  popular  mind  with  eye-glasses,  long 
words,  angularity  and  other  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  severe  mental  discipline 
and  parsimony  in  diet.  The  ideal  Boston 
girl  is  not  rotund.  On  the  contrary,  she  is 
endowed  with  a  sharply  defined  outline, 
and  a  profile  which  suggests  self-abnega- 
tion in  the  matter  of  food.  A  little  dia- 
lect will  help  the  story  along  amazingly ; 
therefore  let  the  scene  be  laid  in  rural 
New  England,  and  let  the  point  be  made 
with  the  usual  rustic  prefix  of  "  Wa-al ! " 
This  will  afford  an  opportunity  to  utilize 
283 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

a  few  minor  ideas  relative  to  New  Eng- 
land rural  customs,  the  maintenance  of 
city  boarders,  the  food  provided,  the  econ- 
omy practised,  and  other  salient  features 
of  country  life. 

So,  by  judicious  expansion — not  pad- 
ding— the  humorist  will  stretch  his  little 
paragraph  into  a  very  respectable  story, 
something  like  this : 

Sample  of  Short  Story  Erected  on  Para- 
graph. 

A  summer  evening  of  exquisite  calm 
and  sweetness.  The  golden  haze  of  sun- 
set sheds  its  soft  tints  on  hill  and  plain, 
and  pours  a  flood  of  mellow  light  over 
the  roofs  and  trees  of  the  quaint  old  vil- 
lage street.  The  last  rays  of  the  sun,  fall- 
ing through  the  waving  boughs  of  elm 
and  maple,  form  a  checkered,  ever-mov- 
ing pattern  on  the  wall  of  the  meeting- 
house; they  kindle  beacon-fires  on  the 
284 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

distant  heights  of  Baldhead  Mountain, 
and  linger  in  tender  caress  on  the  dainty 
auburn  tresses  of  Priscilla  Whitney,  who 
is  displaying  her  flounces,  furbelows,  and 
other  "  citified  fixin's  "  on  the  front  piazza 
of  Deacon  Pogram's  residence. 

(It  will  be  seen  that  the  beginning  of 
this  paragraph  is  written  in  a  serious  vein ; 
but  the  last  two  lines  prepare  the  reader 
for  a  comic  story.  He  now  makes  up  his 
mouth  for  the  laugh  which  awaits  him  a 
little  farther  along.) 

From  the  kitchen  comes  a  pleasant 
aroma  of  burnt  bread-crusts,  as  dear 
old  Samanthy  Pogram,  her  kindly  face 
covered  with  its  snow-white  glory,  pre- 
pares the  coffee  for  supper.  Meanwhile 
the  worthy  deacon,  in  stocking-feet  and 
shirt-sleeves,  sits  by  the  open  door  and 
enjoys  the  cool  evening  breeze  that  sweeps 
in  refreshing  gusts  down  the  fertile  valley 
of  the  Pockohomock. 

"  There  ye  be  again,  Sarah,"  says  Aunt 

285 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Samanthy  to  the  hired  help,  a  shade  of 
annoyance  crossing  her  fine  old  face. 
"Hain't  I  told  ye  time  'n'  again  not  to 
put  fresh  eggs  in  the  boarders'  omelet? 
I  suppose  ye  think  there  hain't  such  a 
thing  as  a  stale  egg  in  the  haouse,  but 
ye  must  be  wastin'  good  ones  on  the  city 
folks !  Sakes  alive !  but  I'll  be  glad  when 
they've  cleaned  aout,  bag  'n'  baggage. 
I'm  nigh  tuckered  aout  a-waitin'  on  'em 
'n'  puttin'  up  with  their  frills  'n'  fancy 
doin's." 

"They  tell  me,  Samanthy,"  says  the 
deacon,  "that  young  Rube  Perkins  is 
kinder  makin'  up  to  one  of  aour  boarders. 
I  s'pose  ye  hain't  noticed  nothin',  mebbe  ? " 

"I've  seen  him  a-settin'  alongside  o' 
that  dough-faced  critter  times  enough  so 
he'd  like  ter  wear  aout  the  rocker  on  the 
piazzy ;  but  I  guess  Rube  had  better  not 
set  enny  too  much  store  by  what  she  says 
to  him.  Them  high-toned  Whitney  folks 
o'  hern  daown  Bosting  way  hain't  over 
286 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

'n'  above  anxious  to  hev  Rube  Perkins 
fur  a  son-in-law,  I  kin  tell  ye." 

"Wa-al,"  drawls  the  deacon,  reflectively, 
"I  kalkerlate  they've  got  an  idee  she'd 
better  make  a  good  match  while  she's 
abaout  it." 

"She's  thin  enough  to  make  a  lucifer 
match,"  rejoins  Aunt  Samanthy ;  and  with 
this  parting  bit  of  irony  she  goes  in  to 
put  the  saleratus  biscuit  on  the  tea-table. 

Of  course  this  is  not  a  model  of  a  hu- 
morous story,  but  it  will  pass  muster.  It 
is,  however,  a  very  creditable  specimen  of 
a  story  built  up,  as  I  have  shown,  on  a 
very  slender  foundation.  Some  humor- 
ists would  give  it  an  apologetic  title,  such 
as  "Rural  Sarcasm,"  or  "Aunt  Saman- 
thy's  Little  Joke,"  in  order  to  let  the 
reader  down  easy. 


287 


AND   OTHER   TALES 


III. —  REVAMPING  OLD  JOKES. 

It  often  happens  that  the  humorist 
finds  himself  unexpectedly  called  upon 
for  jokes  at  a  moment  when  he  has  no 
ideas  about  him.  Perhaps  he  is  away 
from  his  workshop  where  his  tools  are 
kept,  or  perhaps  he  has  lost  the  combi- 
nation of  the  safe  in  which  his  precious 
ideas  are  securely  locked  up.  The  prob- 
lem of  how  to  make  bricks  without  straw, 
and  the  awful  fate  of  the  people  who  at- 
tempted it,  stares  him  in  the  face.  But 
his  keen  intelligence  comes  to  his  aid. 
Like  the  trusty  guide  in  Mayne  Reid's 
story,  he  exclaims, "  Ha,  it  is  the  celebrated 
joke-root  bush,  called  by  the  Apaches  the 
ha-ha  plant !  "  and  seizing  an  ancient  jest, 
he  tears  it  from  the  soil,  carefully  cleanses 
the  esculent  root  from  its  clinging  mould, 
and  then  proceeds  to  revamp  it  for  mod- 
ern use. 

288 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

The  joke  should  be  one  that  has  slowly 
ripened  under  the  suns  of  distant  climes 
and  other  days.  It  should  be  perfectly 
mellow,  and  care  must  be  taken  to  re- 
move from  it  all  particles  of  dust  and 
lichen.  Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  that 
the  joke,  divested  of  all  superfluities,  pre- 
sents this  appearance : 

"A  man  once  gave  his  friend  a  very 
small  cup  of  very  old  wine,  and  the  friend 
remarked  that  it  was  the  smallest  thing 
of  its  age  he  had  ever  seen." 

I  have  selected  this  joke  because  it  is 
one  of  the  oldest  of  which  the  world  has 
any  record. 

The  world  has  known  many  changes 
since  civilization  reached  the  point  that 
made  old  wine  an  appreciated  and  ac- 
knowledged delight  to  the  dwellers  in  the 
fertile  valley  of  the  Euphrates,  and  thus 
threw  open  the  doors  for  the  appearance 
of  this  joke.  The  dust  of  him  who  gave 
and  of  him  who  drank  the  wine  are 
289 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

blended  together  in  the  soil  of  that  once 
populous  region.  Stately  sarcophagi 
mark  the  last  resting-places  of  many  who 
have  enjoyed  this  ancient  bit  of  mer- 
riment. Empires  have  crumbled  since 
then ;  mighty  rulers  have  yielded  the  in- 
signia of  their  power  at  the  imperative 
summons  of  the  conqueror  of  all;  yet 
nothing  has  interrupted  the  stately,  sol- 
emn march  of  this  joke  along  the  corri- 
dors of  time.  It  nourished  in  Byzantium ; 
it  lingered  in  tender  caress  on  each  of  the 
seven  hills  of  Rome ;  when  Hannibal  led 
his  cohorts  across  the  snow-clad  Alps  it 
stepped  out  from  behind  a  crag  and 
said,  "  Here  we  are  again !  "  And  the  as- 
tonished warrior  recognized  it  at  once,  al- 
though it  wore  a  peaked  hat  and  a  goitre. 
It  has  awakened  laughter  among  effem- 
inate and  refined  Athenians  as  they  lay 
stretched  in  languid  and  perfumed  ease 
immediately  after  the  luxurious  bath,  and 
about  two  hundred  years  before  Christ. 

290 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

It  has  been  said  that  cleanliness  is  next 
to  godliness,  and  yet  we  find  that  in  this 
instance  there  was  room  to  slip  this  joke 
in  between  the  two,  and  have  two  hun- 
dred years  of  space  left. 

It  is  found  in  the  sacred  writings  of 
Confucius,  side  by  side  with  his  memo- 
rable injunction  to  his  followers  not  to 
shed  a  single  cuff  or  sock  unless  the  ticket 
should  be  forthcoming.  Under  the  iron 
crown  of  Lombardy  and  the  lilies  of 
France  this  joke  has  lived  and  thrived. 
It  has  even  been  published  in  the  Phila- 
delphia Ledger,  which  is  a  sure  proof  of 
its  antiquity. 

Surely  no  one  but  an  American  humor- 
ist could  look  upon  this  hoary  relic  with- 
out feelings  of  veneration.  Let  us  see 
what  the  humorist  does  with  it : 

That  which  has  worn  a  toga  in  Rome 

and  a  coat  of  mail  in  the  middle  ages,  he 

now  clothes  in  the  habiliments  of  the 

present  day.     Watch  him  as  he  arrays  it 

291 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

in  the  high  hat,  the  patent-leather  shoes, 
the  cutaway  coat,  and  the  eye-glasses  of 
modern  times,  and,  behold,  we  have : 

"  Young  Arthur  Cecil,  of  the  Knicker- 
,  bocker  Club,  prides  himself  on  his  know- 
ledge of  wines,  and  boasts  of  a  cellar  of 
his  own  which  cannot  be  matched  on  this 
side  of  the  water.  Bilkins  dined  with 
him  the  other  night,  and  as  a  great  treat 
his  host  poured  out  into  a  liquor-glass  a 
few  drops  of  priceless  old . 

" '  There,  my  boy/  he  exclaimed, '  you'll 
not  find  a  drop  of  that  anywhere  in  New 
York  except  on  my  table ! ' 

"  Bilkins  took  it  down  at  a  single  gulp, 
smacked  his  lips,  and  said : 

" '  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  old  man. 
There  ain't  many  things  lying  around 
loose  that  are  as  old  as  this  and  haven't 
grown  any  bigger.' 

"  The  joke  was  too  good  to  keep,  and 
Cecil  had  to  square  himself  at  the  club 
by  ordering  up  a  basket  of  Mumm." 

292 


AND   OTHER   TALES 


IV. — THE  OBVIOUS  JOKE. 

A  large  class  of  simple-minded  people 
believe  that  tlie  obvious  joke  is  the  most 
delightful  form  of  humor.  An  obvious 
joke  is  one  whose  point  or  climax  can  be 
seen  from  the  very  start,  and  is,  in  fact, 
a  natural  sequence  to  the  beginning. 

For  example,  when  we  begin  to  read 
of  a  city  dude  who  professed  to  under- 
stand the  distinctively  rural  art  of  milk- 
ing a  cow,  and  volunteered  to  show  his 
friends  how  to  do  it,  we  know  perfectly 
well  that  he  is  going  to  get  knocked  out 
in  the  attempt,  and  that  the  story  will 
end  in  a  humorous  description  of  the  in- 
dignities inflicted  upon  him  by  the  en- 
raged animal.  The  only  chance  for  vari- 
ety in  the  sketch  lies  in  the  manner  in 
which  the  cow  will  resent  the  dude's  im- 
pertinence. She  may  impale  him  on  one 
or  both  of  her  horns ;  she  may  hurl  him 
293 


AND   OTHEE   TALES 

on  a  dunghill  and  dance  on  his  prostrate 
form  j  she  may  content  herself  with  kick- 
ing him ;  but  whatever  she  does  she  will 
be  sure  to  upset  the  milk-pail  and  excite 
the  laughter  of  the  lover  of  obvious  hu- 
mor. Of  course  a  professional  humorist 
never  reads  an  obvious  joke.  He  knows 
exactly  what  is  going  to  happen  the  mo- 
ment his  eye  falls  on  the  first  paragraph. 

If  a  tatterdemalion  appears  at  the 
county  fair  with  a  broken-down  plug 
which  he  offers  to  trot  against  any  horse 
on  the  track,  the  professional  humorist 
knows  that  the  decrepit  charger  is  going 
to  win  the  race,  and  that  his  owner  will 
go  away  with  his  pockets  bulging  out 
with  the  money  he  has  won  from  the  too 
confiding. 

If  a  man  holding  four  aces  is  persis- 
tently raised  by  a  gentleman  of  quiet  de- 
meanor and  bland,  childlike  face,  we  can 
call  the  latter's  hand  without  looking  at 
it,  because  we  know  from  long  familiar- 

294 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

ity  with  American  humorous  literature, 
as  well  as  poker,  that  he  holds  a  straight 
flush.  Some  writers  have  had  the  effron- 
tery to  deal  him  a  royal  flush,  forgetting 
that  he  has  already  given  his  opponent 
all  the  aces. 

If  a  gentleman  of  apparently  delicate 
physique  resents  the  impertinence  of  a 
bully  who  is  forcing  his  attentions  upon 
a  lady,  we  know,  without  reading  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter,  that  the  man  of  effem- 
inate build  is  in  reality  a  prize-fighter 
or  a  college  athlete,  and  will  bundle  the 
bully  out  on  the  sidewalk  with  great  ra- 
pidity. 

The  professional  humorist  shuns  these 
"  comics  "  as  he  would  the  plague.  They 
make  him  tired.  He  knows  how  easy 
they  are  to  construct.  Moreover  he  de- 
spises alike  the  mind  that  gives  them 
birth  and  that  which  finds  them  funny. 

The  recipe  for  their  concoction  is  very 
simple : 

295 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

Think  of  some  acquaintance  who  ha- 
bitually eats  sugar  on  his  lettuce  and 
sweetens  his  claret.  The  man  who  says, 
"  I  don't  want  none  of  this  J-talian  cater- 
waulin'.  The  good  old-fashioned  tunes, 
like  'Silver  Threads  among  the  Gold,' 
suit  me  right  down  to  the  ground.  I 
don't  want  none  of  yer  fancy  gimcracks 
'n'  kickshaws  in  mine."  Try  to  remem- 
ber the  sort  of  thing  that  has  moved  this 
man  to  laughter,  and  then  fashion  a  joke 
on  the  same  plan,  taking  pains  to  make 
it  apparent  to  the  most  primitive  intellect. 

Persons  of  this  description  are  found 
in  large  numbers  in  the  rural  districts, 
and,  therefore,  any  story  tending  to  cast 
ridicule  on  the  city  man  who  puts  on  airs, 
or,  in  other  words,  affects  the  amenities  of 
civilized  life,  is  sure  to  be  appreciated. 

For    example :    It   is   the    delight    of 

sportsmen  to  fish  for  trout  with  fly-rods 

and  tackle  of  an  elaborate  description,  to 

the  intense  amusement  of  the  yokel  who 

296 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

catches  fish,  not  for  sport,  but  in  order 
that  he  may  sell  them  at  an  exorbitant 
price  to  some  ignorant  stranger.  Now  it 
is  a  very  easy  matter  to  compose  a  story 
on  this  basis  suited  to  the  comprehension 
of  such  a  rustic. 

The  following  is  a  fair  specimen  of  a 
story  of  the  class  I  have  described : 

"  He  was  a  real  sportsman,  just  from 
the  city,  and  he  had  come  down  into  the 
country  to  show  the  benighted  inhabi- 
tants how  to  catch  fish.  He  had  a  new 
patent  rod  in  his  right  hand  and  a  brand- 
new  basket  over  his  left  shoulder.  In  his 
coat-tail  pocket  he  carried  a  silver  flask, 
and  in  his  breast-pocket  a  big  wallet  filled 
with  all  the  latest  devices  in  newfangled 
flies.  He  walked  down  the  road  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  had  come  to  catch  fish 
and  knew  just  how  to  do  it. 

"  It  was  growing  dark  when  he  returned 
to  the  hotel,  wet,  muddy,  and  weary,  and 
sadly  laid  aside  his  implements  of  sport. 
297 


AND   OTHER   TALES 

" '  Fish  don't  bite  in  this  blawsted  coun- 
try, yer  know,'  was  his  reply  to  the  land- 
lord's cheery  inquiry,  '  What  luck  ? ' 

"  And  just  at  this  moment  who  should 
come  along  but  old  Bill  Simons's  sandy- 
haired,  freckle-faced  boy  Jim,  with  his 
birch-pole  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  fine 
string  of  the  speckled  beauties  in  his 
brown  paw. 

" '  Good  Gawd ! '  exclaimed  the  dude, 
'  how  did  you  catch  those,  me  boy  ? ' 

" '  Hook  'n'  line,  yer  fool !  How  d'yer 
s'pose  ? '  was  Jim's  answer,  as  he  pulled  a 
handful  of  angleworms,  the  last  of  his 
bait,  from  his  pocket,  and  threw  them 
out  of  the  window." 


298 


41017 


A     000  678  031     6 


